If I Speed Away
by Lindenharp
Summary: When James is shot by a murder suspect, Robbie discovers something very unexpected about his sergeant. AU. Wingfic. Lewis/Hathaway friendship. Warning: Mention of suicide of two minor OCs. Mention of canon sexual abuse of a minor. No graphic details.
1. Chapter 1

_It happened so quickly_, is all that he can think. Robbie Lewis has been a copper for more years than he cares to count. He knows that any situation can go pear-shaped in the blink of an eye—or the flash of a gunshot. And still it came as a surprise. Even as he strides through the too-familiar corridors of the John Radcliffe to A&E, he relives those horrible few seconds. Evan Murchison, the panicked suspect, pulling a gun from the pocket of his jacket. Robbie's warning shout. The sharp _crack_of the gun, followed by Hathaway's cry of pain as he crumpled to the ground. The second, slightly muffled shot—muffled because Murchison had the muzzle of the gun pressed to the side of his own head when he pulled the trigger.

It seemed hours before the ambulance arrived, though the paramedics told him it was only seven minutes. Once James was whisked off to hospital, Robbie paced the frost-covered cobblestones of the alley. As soon as a couple of uniformed officers turned up to secure the scene, he jumped into his car and hurried after his sergeant.

He rounds the corner and what he sees nearly causes his heart to stop. Two people are standing outside the room where James is being treated. One is a man in a green scrub suit; the other is Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent. _It must be bad, to bring her down here so quickly._

As he hurries forward, Innocent turns to greet him. He can tell just from the look on her face that she's got bad news, but not the worst news. "Robbie! James is alive, he's stable, and is expected to make a full recovery." She holds up a hand. "There's something we have to discuss before you go in. He's going to need surgery."

"What's he doing in there, then?" Robbie gestures at the closed door. "Why isn't he already in the operating theatre?"

The man turns to face him. His staff badge identifies him as Dr Hassan Khalil, Senior Registrar, A&E. "Mr Hathaway is in no immediate danger. I can assure you that his wounds are not life-threatening. However, we are not equipped to treat such an unusual case. A specialist—a surgeon from the Princess Margaret Rose Orthopaedic Hospital is flying down from Edinburgh."

_Unusual case? A specialist?_ Robbie doesn't like the sound of that. What's wrong with James that they have to send all the way to bloody Scotland for a surgeon? If the John Radcliffe doesn't have the right sort of expert, Nuffield Orthopaedic is just two kilometres away. And London is as full of world-famous doctors as a pudding is full of raisins. Why wait for someone to travel down from _Edinburgh_? He takes a step forward.

"Robbie, we have to—" Innocent begins.

"Ma'am, we can talk all you like after I've seen my sergeant." Robbie pushes the door open and freezes.

James is lying on his back, hooked up to a worrying number of tubes and wires. His eyes are closed, and his face is even paler than usual. He's wearing a pair of faded blue scrub trousers, but he's bare above the waist. A gauze bandage the size of an old-fashioned handkerchief is taped over his right shoulder. The bloodstain on the bandage is rust-coloured, turning brown. Dried blood, so not actively bleeding.

His detective's eye automatically notes all of these things, leaving the rest of his mind free to wonder if he's dreaming. Robbie blinks, twice, then rubs his eyes. James Hathaway is still lying there, his lean, pale torso framed by a pair of half-folded wings the colour of antique ivory.

He's not sure how long he's been standing there gawping when Jean Innocent clamps a firm hand on his left shoulder and guides him out of the room. They're in the hallway only long enough for him to notice that Dr Khalil has disappeared before she steers him into a nearby empty waiting room.

"Sit down, Robbie."

He remains standing. "Why the hell wasn't I told about this?"

The Chief Superintendent's long, steady gaze tells him clearer than any words that he's gone past incivility and is perilously close to crossing the line into insubordination.

"Sorry, Ma'am." Robbie lowers himself into the nearest chair. He takes a long breath and releases it slowly.

Innocent softens. "I know it's a shock. It was for me, too, and I didn't find out in such a dramatic way. Legally, this is considered a medical condition, and Sergeant Hathaway is protected by the laws governing medical confidentiality. He came to me six or seven months before you returned to Oxford. He'd been assigned to an undercover operation having to do with drugs being distributed in a dance club. We needed younger officers who could pass as students—or at least as postgraduates." She smiles, remembering. "James walked into my office, more stiff and formal than I'd ever seen him, and said he needed to request special accommodation under the Disability Discrimination Act. He was holding the outfit they wanted him to wear in the club, which included a very tight-fitting t-shirt."

Robbie's mind is starting to function again. He understands now why James's off-duty wardrobe seems to consist mostly of hoodies and baggy sweatshirts.

"He placed the t-shirt on my desk and said that he did not wish to be removed from the assignment, but that it was impossible for him to wear that particular garment. Naturally, I asked why. He said he would prefer to show me. In private." Innocent chuckles at Robbie's gobsmacked expression. "I don't usually take junior officers into windowless storage rooms to disrobe for me. I thought that perhaps he had severe scars from a childhood accident, or some kind of congenital deformity, and he was too embarrassed to talk about it."

Personally, Robbie thinks that stripping off in front of his female boss would be far more embarrassing than anything he could imagine saying.

"He took off his jacket and tie, and when he started to unbutton his shirt, I could see he was wearing something underneath it. It looked like a cross between a straitjacket and an old-fashioned elastic girdle. And I still didn't suspect the truth until he unhooked the straps and his wings just spilled out." She shakes her head. "It's hard to believe how tightly they can be folded up. He stretched them out a bit—that corset of his must be very uncomfortable—and told me that he was very much afraid that standard clubwear would make him conspicuous, and would most likely compromise the investigation."

Robbie chuckles. He can almost hear James's dry voice reciting those lines.

"As soon as James's wardrobe issues were sorted, everything went smoothly. The dealers were apprehended and two of them turned on their supplier. James requested that I not inform anyone unless it was unavoidable. No one else knows." She hesitates. "I will have to tell Dr Hobson. Even though Murchison killed himself, there will be a report. The bullet that struck James will have to be entered into evidence, once the surgeon removes it. Evidently, there are markers in the blood that would reveal his... condition to someone who knows what to look for."

"Laura knows how to be discreet. And she likes the lad. She'll do right by him."

"She will. And now that we've finally had this little talk," she says with only a hint of acid, "perhaps you'd like to go and see your sergeant, Inspector Lewis?"

"Yes Ma'am. Thank you."

"He's under light sedation, plus painkillers, so don't be surprised if he drifts in and out," she warns.

"Is he going to be upset that you told me, Ma'am?"

Innocent shakes her head. "He did say unless it was unavoidable. If Sergeant Hathaway thinks that I could prevent you from seeing him under these circumstances, then he grossly overestimates my authority." She makes a shooing motion with one hand. "Go."

He goes. James's eyes are still closed, but his arms are positioned differently, and his face is tilted to his left. Robbie seats himself in the visitor chair. He takes the opportunity to study the wings. They're somehow different to what he expected. The feathers are more textured, and varied in size. They range in colour from pure white to a soft gold just a touch lighter than James's hair. He supposes that his ideas have mostly been formed by the fake wings of angels in Christmas pageants and cupids and fairies at fancy dress parties. Fluffy, useless things, constructed of down and cardboard. These are the real thing, made of bone and sinew, muscle and blood. Wings that move, that fly.

Robbie tries to imagine DS James Hathaway soaring over the spires of Oxford. Dressed in his usual immaculate suit and tie? In a Cambridge hoodie? He shakes his head in amazement. He's seen a BBC documentary on... people like this. 'The world's rarest genetic anomaly,' the presenter called it. 'Literally one in a million.' There are perhaps 60 of them living in Britain. Robbie wonders if that count includes James. He wonders if there others who keep themselves secret. He wonders how James will feel when he realises that his governor knows. He wonders if James would ever have chosen to tell him the truth.

As if responding to his thoughts, James mumbles something indistinct and opens his eyes. "Sir?"

"Hullo, Sergeant. Had a nice nap?"

"Sir! Are you all right?"

"Easy, lad. I'm okay. You're the one who got shot," Robbie says matter-of-factly, "but the doctor says you'll be fine."

James stares at him from beneath drooping eyelids. "I heard a second shot."

"Didn't go anywhere near me," Robbie assures him. He spreads his arms wide. "See? Not a scratch. You, on the other hand, need a bit of surgery to remove your little souvenir."

James nods and his head starts to loll. Suddenly, he stiffens. "Murchison?"

"Sorted," Robbie says easily. "He's not going anywhere." It's not a lie, after all.

"'Kay," James murmurs, and this time he does fall asleep.

* * *

He returns to the waiting room. Innocent is about to leave, but Laura Hobson has just arrived.

She gives him a quick hug. "Robbie, how are you doing?"

"Me? I'm not the one with a bullet in his shoulder."

"No, you're the one fretting himself half to death." Laura sits, and pulls him into the chair beside her. "I've seen the x-rays. It's really not a bad injury."

"But?"

She sighs. "But the bullet went into the scapula, where the wing joins the shoulder. There are some blood vessels and nerve clusters that make extraction from that area a bit tricky, even in an ordinary person. And of course, the underlying structure is very different. God knows they didn't cover wings in any of _my _anatomy lectures. There are only four or five doctors in the world who are qualified for this. We're lucky that Dr Morrison is relatively near at hand. If he'd been unavailable, the next closest specialist is in Rome."

For some reason, Morrison's name seems familiar, but he can't think why. "Will you be there for the operation?"

"I'll scrub in, and I'll be there to receive the bullet once it's out. I'll probably remain to watch the rest of the procedure. Out of interest, both personal and professional. Sir Andrew Morrison is a genius in his field. James couldn't be in better hands."

"I'm glad to know that you'll be there. You can explain things to me afterwards."

"Of course, Robbie." She pauses. "May I see him?"

Robbie is touched, in a way he can't explain even to himself, that Laura asks _his_permission. Of course, she'll see him later in the operating theatre, though he supposes the lad will be covered with all kinds of sheets. "Come along, then." He rises and she falls into step beside him.

James is soundly asleep now; his head sagging on his chest. Laura stands for a long moment studying the wings, then looks at the readings on the monitors. With a touch on Robbie's elbow, she indicates that she's ready to go out. "He's in much better shape than I would expect for a man with a bullet inside him. His heart rate is strong, and his O2 sats—sorry, blood oxygen levels—are good. He'll be fine." She smiles. "And now I have strict orders from your boss to take you out of the hospital and see that you get some dinner."

He starts to protest. "I should—"

Laura waggles a finger at him. "You should be sensible for once and do as you're told. Honestly, Robbie... James is perfectly stable. There's no point in your going hungry in order to watch him sleep. The operation can't possibly start for another two hours at the earliest."

They take Laura's car to an Italian restaurant on George Street, where she orders sparkling mineral water with lemon. She mustn't drink before entering the operating theatre, even though she'll only be an observer. "But for you, Robbie, I prescribe a couple of glasses of wine with dinner."

"Doctor's orders, eh? Why not?" Linguine with prawns and a carafe of Pinot Grigio do a lot to soothe his nerves, as does a pleasant conversation about ordinary things: Laura's music, Robbie's planned holiday in Manchester, a recent film they've both seen. When they return to the hospital, they discover that Dr Morrison has arrived ahead of schedule and that James is being prepared for surgery.

"That's my cue," Laura says. "I'll see you afterwards, Robbie. Don't be worried if it takes a few hours. This is the sort of operation where even the best surgeons are going to be slow and cautious. Especially the best surgeons."

The long wait is made more difficult by the presence of Jean Innocent in the waiting room. Robbie appreciates her concern for James (and for him, too, he supposes), but it's awkward. He's self-conscious; can't pace the room as he'd like, and her attempts to make distracting conversation just put more strain on his nerves. It feels like two hours past forever when a stout, balding man in a blue scrub suit enters, trailed by a similarly-dressed Laura Hobson.

Morrison heads straight for Jean Innocent. "It went very well," he says without preamble. "As you know, the bullet was in a tricky spot, but we managed a clean removal. No nerve damage, and minimal trauma to muscle and bone, as such things go. It will be a few months before he's completely recovered, but he will get there."

"Can I see him?" Robbie demands.

The surgeon glances at Innocent, who replies, "Detective Inspector Lewis is Sergeant Hathaway's governor."

"And his friend," Laura adds, "and the person most likely to be helping him through his convalescence." She glances from Innocent to Robbie. "He won't have the use of his right arm for a while. He'll need help with certain things, even after he goes home. And I think that the only people he would trust to see him... exposed are all standing in this room."

"That's true," Innocent agrees.

Morrison looks Robbie over thoroughly, and whatever he sees appears to satisfy him. "Normally there are no visitors allowed overnight, but we sometimes make exceptions for family, and in cases where there is no family, for close friends. I'm staying the night at the Randolph. In the unlikely case of an emergency, the hospital will page me. Tomorrow morning, I'll meet with Mr Hathaway, and if he consents, with Inspector Lewis as well. Half ten? Splendid."

* * *

Hospital chairs seem designed to discourage visitors from stopping too long. Fortunately, an old copper like him has got plenty of experience sitting for long stretches of time in uncomfortable places. And unlike a stake-out, he can get up and stretch his legs when he likes.

James is back in his room. The anaesthesia has worn off, but he's sound asleep. Robbie sighs. Laura told him this is normal, since surgery puts almost as much strain on the body as the initial wound. James might well sleep through the night. Her look had said clearly that Robbie ought to do the same, preferably at home. He can't do that. It's irrational, but Robbie can't help thinking that James will be okay so long as he is present when the lad awakens. So he sits on the pathetic excuse for a chair and pretends to read a newspaper. Once every hour or so, he gets up and paces the room for a few minutes.

He studies James's face. Has it got a little more colour in it? Hard to tell in the dim light. He studies the monitors, but the readouts make no sense to him. If any of them were showing something bad, he supposes that it would beep or ring or signal somehow.

Sitting down again, he feels his eyelids begin to droop. No harm in resting his eyes, he supposes. Just for a moment.

He's not sure if it's sound or movement that pulls him up from sleep. It's a muffled curse that brings him fully awake. Robbie sits up straight and blinks at the bed. James is trying, not very successfully, to pull the sheet up using his left hand. Hiding the wings, Robbie realises.

He stands up, and in two quick strides is beside the bed. "Easy there. I've got it." He grasps the top edge of the sheet, lifts it up, and lays it gently over James's torso. "Warm enough? Or do you want the blanket, too?"

James doesn't meet his eyes. "The sheet is sufficient, sir. Thank you."

Robbie pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits down. "I won't ask how you're feeling because I don't want to tempt you to lie. Anything you need? Water? Anaesthesia dries you out something fierce. I remember that from when they took me appendix out."

James nods, so Robbie fills a plastic cup from a jug on the bedside table. He holds it against James's lips.

"Thank you, sir," James says again. He's staring at a spot somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. "That's very kind of you."

Robbie doesn't bother to reply. "You awake enough to do some talking, James?"

James stiffens. "Yes, sir."

"Good. First of all, the surgeon will be by to talk to you later, but I'll tell you what he told us―you're gonna recover completely. Full use of the arm and wing." He manages to say the last two words with hesitation or special emphasis. "They brought down a specialist from Edinburgh. Fellow named Morrison."

"Sir Andrew Morrison?" James asks.

Figures that James would've heard of him. "That's the one. Seems like a decent bloke, and Laura tells me he's one of the top men in his field."

"Dr Hobson?" It's clear from the look on James's face that he's trying to find a polite way to ask about her involvement.

"Yeah, Innocent called her in to take charge of the bullet. She's given it a good cleaning, so it will go into evidence properly identified, but without any traces of your blood, which I'm told could be awkward."

There's the briefest of pauses as James assimilates what Robbie said―and didn't say. "I'll have to testify, of course."

"You'll have to give a statement, but there won't be a trial. That second shot you heard? That was Murchison, putting a bullet into his brain."

James glances at his heavily bandaged right shoulder. "He might have had the courtesy to do that first."

Robbie does not say that no reasonable person would expect courtesy from a man who shot his wife and the colleague he wrongly believed to be her lover. "I think he panicked, and when he realised that he'd gone and shot a copper, he panicked a bit more."

"Sir, when you said that Dr. Morrison told 'us' about my prognosis, who was present?"

Robbie's been expecting that question. "Meself, Laura, and the Chief Super. Was there someone else who should be told? Anyone you want to call?"

"No, sir. Thank you." He seems to be waiting for something.

"After the surgeon's seen you tomorrow―" Robbie glances at his watch. "Later today, that is, Innocent will let you know about leave. She'll probably give you more than you want to take, knowing you, but you're not to rush back until you're ready."

"Yes, sir." Hathaway's face is unreadable.

"If you're in too much pain to talk now, I'll call the nurse for you and take myself off, man. I can babble at you some other time."

"For God's sake, sir, if you think you're being kind by delaying this, you're mistaken."

"What?"

"Just... tell me," James says. He sounds tired and defeated, but he manages to look Robbie full in the face. "After my leave, what happens?"

Robbie hopes he doesn't look as stupid as he feels. "You come back to work. Maybe desk duty at first."

"What work?"

Does Hathaway think he's going to be sacked because of what he is? Innocent isn't the sort to do that. And if she were, she'd have done it years ago, when she first learned his secret. Or is it that James feels he can't work with someone who knows that he's different? He's a very private person, after all.

Robbie clears his throat. "Work as a Detective Sergeant. As my sergeant. Unless you want to request a change, erm... a different governor, and then I'd... well, I wouldn't stand in your way." _But I'd miss you something fierce._

James is staring at him as if he's speaking Greek. Or maybe Swahili or Russian, because the lad speaks Greek, after all. "If _I_want a change?"

"Well,I _don't_want a change. Why would I?" James continues to stare at him. "What, because you're... different?" Robbie says incredulously. "Special, more like."

James snorts. "Special. Do you know, in the 15th century, 'special' creatures like me were property of the Crown, in the same category as swans and whales."

"In the sodding 15th century, we were still burning harmless old grannies for witchcraft and hanging children for stealing bread. I think society has progressed a little in 600 years. And don't you dare call yourself a creature!"

"What would you prefer? Freak? Monster? 'Mutant' is technically correct, but it makes people think of comic book characters, and brightly-coloured spandex really doesn't suit me."

_He's trying to push me away before I can do it to him. How can he believe that of me? After all this time we've worked together. _The anger flares up, hot and furious, and the words spill out of him like an old-fashioned kettle boiling over on the hob. "I told you once that I didn't care if you were gay or straight. None of my business. I would have thought you'd understand from that what's important to me-and what isn't. It's important to me that you're the best sergeant I've ever had. It's important to me that you've got a brain bigger than the Bodleian. It's important to me that you know what I think, sometimes before I do. What's _not_important to me is that you've got a sodding pair of oversized feather-dusters on your back."

"Feather-dusters?" James's voice goes higher, almost cracking like an adolescent. "Feather-dusters?" he repeats. He starts to make harsh, wheezing sounds. Robbie's heart nearly stops before he realises what he's hearing. James is laughing.

"Daft sod," Robbie mutters.

James laughs harder. His face reddens, he breathes in ragged gasps, and his shoulders shake. "Feather-dusters!"

Robbie can't help himself. It's contagious. He lets out a loud guffaw.

A nurse rushes into the room. She studies James, then scans the monitors. "Sir," she says to Robbie, "You're not to disturb the patient like this." The warm Caribbean lilt of her voice has turned as frosty as the winter air outside. "Mr Hathaway needs his rest. I must ask you to leave."

Nurse Grace Bailey looks nothing at all like Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent, but the implacable expression on her face is all too familiar. It's clear that she expects her edict to be obeyed. Immediately.

"Sorry," Robbie says, half to the nurse, half to James. "I'll be back to see you at half nine. Get some sleep."

"You too, sir." James punctuates his reply with a yawn.

* * *

Robbie is standing outside James's room at 10:00, sipping a large coffee from the hospital's cafe. Visiting time on this ward doesn't begin until noon, but his warrant card got him past the reception desk. Luckily for him, the formidable Nurse Bailey seems to be off shift. He doesn't want to enter, in case James is still sleeping.

At 10:15, a nurse goes into the room, shutting the door behind her. Robbie can hear the familiar sound of James's voice responding to questions. Not asleep, then. When the nurse exits a few minutes later, Robbie walks in. James is propped up in the bed, trying to read a newspaper. A tray with a half-eaten breakfast is sitting on the bedside table. It looks about as unappealing as such things usually do.

"I'm sorry about last night―"

"Sir, I want to apologise―"

They both come to an abrupt halt. Robbie waves his hand to indicate that James should go first.

"I want to apologise for what I said last night, sir. It was inappropriate and disrespectful."

"Forget about it. I shouldn't have gone after you like that, especially not right after you'd come out of surgery."

"It's all right, sir. I understand."

Robbie's not so sure that James does understand. It's not that he was mouthy and sarcastic―Robbie has put up with much worse from his bagman―but that he was insulting_._Because how else should he feel about someone assuming that he'll act like a sodding bigot? He suspects he'll have to explain it properly, but now isn't the time. "Forget about it," he repeats.

A soft knock on the door announces Sir Andrew Morrison. He greets the two of them cordially, then asks Robbie to leave the room while he checks his handiwork. When Robbie comes back in, Morrison waves him into a visitor chair. "Mr Hathaway has asked for you to be present while I review his case. If either of you has questions, please don't hesitate to interrupt me."

The surgeon quickly describes the injury and the procedure. "I see no reason why you should not regain full use of the arm and wing. Do you fly, Mr Hathaway?" he says as matter-of-factly as if he were asking about vitamins or allergies or sleep habits.

James's eyes widen, but he replies calmly enough, "Not very often, and not in the past two or three years."

Morrison nods. "And I gather that you're in the habit of wearing a binder under your clothing. You will have to avoid that for at least two weeks, until the wound is sufficiently healed that it can withstand sustained pressure."

"I don't care if it aches a bit―" James begins.

"It's not an issue of pain, Mr Hathaway. If you compress that area while it is still healing, you risk permanent nerve damage to the wing _and_the arm. You may choose not to fly, but I daresay you would prefer to retain use of your right arm."

"But I can't be away from work for two weeks―"

"You can and you will," Robbie says firmly. "I've already cleared it with Innocent."

Morrison continues with his post-operative instructions: changing bandages, keeping the wound site clean, physical therapy exercises. "After the first week, you can do the movements with a hand weight. About half a kilo or thereabouts. If you don't own any exercise weights, a tin of beans will do quite nicely."

Robbie adds tinned beans to his mental shopping list of Things James Will Need. They both have a few questions, but really it's not a complicated situation. Morrison prescribes a painkiller for the next few days, and hands James his business card. "In case you need to contact me."

"Thank you." James looks ruefully at his right hand and settles for a bob of his head instead.

"My email address is on the back," Morrison continues. "It's confidential. No one accesses that account other than myself. If you have questions, even those not related to the surgery..." He pauses. "After you're fully recovered, you might consider going on holiday. There's a small island in the Outer Hebrides... uninhabited most of the year, but there's a lighthouse keeper's cottage that's been refurbished. Very relaxing, very isolated. It's private property, but the owner has been known to let it at reasonable rates to the right sort of people." He gives James a meaningful look. "I'm told that there are some exhilarating updrafts off the seaward cliffs."

Robbie suddenly remembers why Sir Andrew seems familiar. He was in that BBC programme. His daughter was winged, and she'd had some sort of injury that left her unable to fly. It had been her greatest joy in life, the presenter said. A few months later, she'd gone on an birdwatching excursion to the cliffs at St. Abb's Head. In what was described as a 'tragic accident', she'd fallen from the path, tumbling helplessly to the jagged sea-rocks 90 metres below. _Poor lass._Had she gone there with that purpose in mind, Robbie wonders, or had the sight of the seabirds swooping and wheeling been too much for her to bear?

James looks gobsmacked, but he manages to thank Morrison for his generous offer. "I'll erm... bear it in mind."

The surgeon turns to Robbie. "The island has attractions for us groundlings, too. Fishing, birdwatching, and a sheltered inlet that's very well-suited for swimming."

Robbie isn't sure what the point of that last comment is. What has he got to do with James's holiday plans? Still it's clear that Morrison wishes James well, beyond his responsibilities as a doctor. He thrusts out his right hand. "Thank you, Sir Andrew."

After the surgeon leaves, Robbie turns back to his sergeant. "Right. I've got a few things for you." He's got some clothing from James's flat: track bottoms and a sweatshirt with slits cut into the back. "I'm afraid your coat is gone. They had to cut it off you in A&E."

James looks ruefully at the sling supporting his right arm. "I wouldn't be able to wear it in any case."

"It's nippy out there. You can't be without something warm, even if it's just in and out of the car. So I got _this _at a charity shop." Robbie spreads open his prize for James's perusal. It's a long cape in a dark grey tweed.

James's eyes widen in surprise. "Thank you, sir."

"This particular shop carries a lot of odd stuff. Costumes and vintage clothing and whatnot. I told the woman that my friend was coming home from hospital, and couldn't wear a coat with sleeves." He does his best to mimic her accent. "Busted 'is wing, did 'e, poor dearie?"

James sputters with laughter. "She didn't say that!"

"She did. I swear. So I told her that your arm was in a sling, and she showed me this."

James runs his good hand over the cape's soft lining. "You'll tell me how much it cost so I can repay you." It's not a question.

"Give over, man. It wasn't all that much. Told you, I got it from a charity shop."

"And I appreciate your kindness, sir, but you're my governor, not my― that is, it's not your responsibility to provide me with clothing."

"Can't a man do a favour for a friend?" Robbie grumbles. He almost points out that his salary is bigger, but that's not going to be received very well. No kindness in further injuring the lad's pride. "It was five quid." Ten, actually, but there's no need for James to know that. "You can buy me a couple of pints when next we're at the Trout."

James eyes him suspiciously, but it's not as though he can demand to see a receipt. He allows Robbie to arrange the cape over his shoulders and fasten the buttons.

An orderly with a wheelchair appears in the doorway. "Your chariot awaits," Robbie says cheerfully. "I'll go and get the car." James nods curtly. As Robbie strides down the hallway, he resists the temptation to look over his shoulder. _Now comes the hard part._

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

As they're driving to James's flat, Robbie explains the plan. "Next few days, I'll spend at your place. I'll go home to sleep―me back can't take nights on your bloody sofa."

"But, sir... you can't―"

"Hathaway," Robbie says as patiently as he can manage, "one of us has got a warrant card that says 'Inspector' and one of us has got a card that says 'Sergeant'. You're a clever bloke, so answer this simple question: which one of us gets to tell the other what he can and can't do?" Out of the corner of his eye he can see James flushing.

"Sorry, sir."

"I think we've had enough apologies to last us a month. This arrangement makes good sense, and Innocent knows it. You were under the knife less than 24 hours ago. Until you recover from the after-effects of the operation, and learn to manage with one hand, you're going to need some help." He considers asking if there's someone else James would rather have, but he's certain he knows the answer. "I'll bring my laptop over tomorrow, get some backlogged reports done."

They get into the flat without incident. James fumbles with his left hand at the clasps of the cape. Robbie pretends not to notice, and goes to unload the carrier bag of shopping in the kitchen. It's not a lot, but there's milk, tinned soup, bread, cheese, and a few other basic items. When he strolls back to the living room, he finds all the window blinds down and James on the sofa. He appears to be engrossed in a paperback book. He's replaced the cape with a fleece throw. Beneath it, his shoulders are hunched, and wings folded tightly.

"Right. Let's see them."

"What?"

"I want to see your wings."

"That's not what you said when I was in hospital, sir."

"No, what I said was that they don't matter to me. They don't change who you are as me sergeant or me mate. Doesn't mean I'm not curious. So instead of me trying to sneak glances and you feeling like you need to hide, let me see them properly, and then we can just go forward."

"I'm afraid that I can't fully extend the right wing yet, sir."

"Soft lad. Does it look any different to the other?"

James stands up, letting the throw slip off his shoulders. "Would you like me to strip as well? So that you can inspect the rest of my body?"

"No, thanks. I reckon you haven't got anything else I've never seen before, unless your bits have got feathers."

James snorts. "I take it you did not read the Chief Super's recent memo on inappropriate sexual remarks in the workplace."

Robbie relaxes. "I did. Fortunately, we're not in the workplace."

"No, no feathers," James says, rolling his eyes. "Just... bits."

"Well then..." Robbie waves a hand, dismissing any further discussion of his sergeant's bits. "Let's see 'em."

Slowly, James spreads his wings. The one on his right remains partly folded, but the other stretches out further than Robbie would have thought possible. He sees James wince slightly, "Don't overdo it. I'm sorry—shouldn't have asked for that so soon."

"It's okay. Just a bit stiff. Sir Andrew said that gentle movement would be good for me." James grunts softly. "Yeah, that's better." He stands straighter, almost at attention. "Ready for inspection, sir."

"Smartarse." Robbie strolls over, hands clasped behind his back, and peers closely at James's left wing. Fully-extended, and in brighter light, the subtle differences in colour and texture are easier to spot. Shades of white and ivory and pale gold blend into one another in a shimmering pattern. _He must be glorious to see in full sunlight_, Robbie thinks, and then wonders how long it's been since James dared go outside by day without concealing his wings.

"You can touch them if you wish," James says, but his flat voice and stiff posture contradict his words.

"Nah, that's all right," Robbie says, wandering away from his sergeant. "I know what feathers feel like."

"From feather-dusters?"

Robbie shakes his head. "When she was a little girl, our Lyn had a pet budgie." He turns around to see James staring at him with mingled disbelief and amusement.

The afternoon passes uneventfully. They lunch on ready-made sandwiches from Tesco Express. James reads a book. Robbie flips through the newspaper. He turns on the telly for a while. There's not much to choose from. He eventually settles for a cooking programme. The celebrity chef (a bloke that Robbie's never heard of) is showing a 30-something bloke how to make mushroom ravioli to impress his date. It's rather like _Blue Peter_ for adults.

The ravioli reminds him that it's nearly time for supper. "How do you feel about pizza?" It's easy to eat one-handed, and they can get it delivered.

James doesn't look up from his book. "Okay..."

Robbie phones, ordering their usual.

Twenty minutes later the doorbell chimes. James grabs his wallet from the desk and thrusts a couple of notes into Robbie's hand before disappearing into the bedroom. Five minutes later, they're sitting at the kitchen table. Robbie's got a bottle of beer; James has to make do with tonic water, since he's taking pain-killers.

Afterwards, they watch something forgettable on the telly. James makes a few offhand comments, but he's not his usual witty, sarcastic self. It may just be that he's tired and in pain, Robbie thinks, except that James keeps shooting him sideways glances, as if he's waiting for something.

"Tomorrow, if you're feeling up to it, I'll take your statement," Robbie says.

"Before the memories fade? I suppose so. Not that there's much to remember. We went to Murchison's residence. He fled, we gave chase, he pulled a gun from his pocket and shot me in the shoulder." He pulls a face. "You'll have to report the rest, sir. It got a bit fuzzy after that."

"There's not much after that to report. Murchison shot himself a few seconds later. I stayed until the scene was secured... and that's all." James nods. So it's not Murchison's death that has him on edge. _I hope he's not still fretting himself over having a job._ "You may as well get used to paperwork. I'm afraid you won't be doing much else for a while."

James sighs loudly and theatrically. "I trust you won't mind waiting twice as long for reports. My one-handed typing skills are somewhat rusty."

"You'll get the hang of it soon enough. When you play your guitar, you do some tricky stuff with your left hand, don't you?"

"Not quite the same thing, sir," James replies, "but I will endeavour to do my best."

They watch the News at Ten, with its usual assortment of political squabbles, international turmoil, and economic woes. This is followed by the Oxford local news, in which Muchison's death rates a one-minute segment. "An Oxfordshire police officer was shot and wounded by the fleeing suspect," the news presenter says soberly. "He was taken to the John Radcliffe Hospital for treatment, and is said to be in good condition."

Robbie looks at James. "Good condition? Is that what they call it?"

James starts to shrug, then winces. "They did discharge me."

It could have been far worse, Robbie knows, and the thought sends cold prickles all along his spine. _He's fine, he's fine, he's fine_, his inner voice chants, trying to drown out the nightmarish might-have-beens. He rises from the sofa. "I should go home and let you get some sleep. Anything else you need?"

James assures him that he's set for the night. He sends his governor off with a key to his flat and thanks that sound genuine enough, but Robbie can't help but notice that the closer he gets to the door, the more James seems to relax.

He'll drive down to the nick tonight, Robbie decides, and pick up his laptop. He'll need it in the morning for the work he's planning to do while at Hathaway's flat, but there are things he wants to research tonight. Things that require privacy.

Once at home, he sits at the kitchen table and opens the laptop. He doesn't have Internet in his flat, but the wireless thingummy attached to the computer works as well as James promised. He grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge, and takes a long sip before typing 'winged people' into the search box. As an afterthought, he opens a blank Word document so he can copy and paste any relevant information he finds. Twenty minutes later, the bottle is empty but the document is still blank.

Robbie is a copper. He knows that the world is full of people with daft ideas, and that most of those people regard the Internet as their personal Speakers' Corner. But what he's read tonight would be rejected by the _Sunday Sport_ as too outlandish. People with wings are descendents of the survivors of Atlantis. They are alien androids. They are the products of a CIA experiment gone wrong. They are a hoax created by the CIA. They are the elite soldiers of the Illuminati. They are angels or demons—or hybrids of both.

The only thing halfway sensible he can find is a BBC webpage about the documentary he saw, and it doesn't tell him anything new. He looks on Amazon for books, and finds a dozen or more, but they seem to be written by other lunatics with a slightly better grasp of English grammar. _Angels Among Us? _is about Nephilim, whatever those may be. _Operation Sunhawk_ argues the case for a top-secret military programme, and _Winged Albion: The Malakim, the Goddess Britannia, and the True Fate of Atlantis_ is so bloody convoluted that he's not sure even the bloke who wrote it understands it.

Robbie rubs a hand across his forehead. He needs to learn more about this secret part of his sergeant's life. How can he help James if he knows so little? At the very least, he needs to know what _not_ to talk about. He could go to a library, but he suspects he'll just find old, but equally daft books with leather bindings and gold letters on their spines. A librarian could likely help him find something better. Naomi Norris at the Bodleian would do him a favour, but... no. He can't risk spilling Hathaway's secret.

He's about to shut off the computer and admit (temporary) failure when he realises he's been missing the obvious. Robbie grabs his mobile and types a text message. It's late, he knows, and Laura probably won't see it until the morning, but five minutes later there's a return text. '_Check your email.'_

A few clicks later, and he's blessing Laura Hobson's name. She's sent him four articles from proper scholarly journals, the sort with footnotes and bibliographies as long as his arm. '_There's more where these came from, but they're mostly very technical genetic studies. How's our boy doing?'_

He replies, '_Ta, Laura. James is well enough. A bit restless but thats to be expected I suppose. Pain not too bad. Hope he gets some sleep tonight.'_

Two of the articles have to do with genetics and mutations, and though presumably simpler than the ones Laura rejected, they're way over his head. The third—by Sir Andrew Morrison, MB, DM (Edin), FRCS—is a wonderfully clear description of the anatomical differences between someone like James and an ordinary bloke like himself.

The final article is the longest. It's a detailed history of winged people in the British Isles, a good twenty pages long, not counting the footnotes. Robbie decides he'll save it for tomorrow morning when he's not so tired and muzzy, but he can't resist skimming through it. It's a PDF, so the pages look exactly like the original, including the illustrations.. And there on page 467 of the _Journal of British Historical Studies_ is the famous Hans Eworth portrait of Elizabeth I and her "wing'd creture" Tom Martyn.

Tom was the youngest of six children of a Northumberland farmer. At the age of four, he was bought from his parents by Nicholas Goodrick, "a mountebank who used to shew him att faires". Three years later, he was taken from Goodrick's custody by the Earl of Cumberland, on the grounds that all such "fantastikal beings" were the legal property of the Crown. Presented to an aging Henry VIII in the summer of 1546, he was made much of at Court, appearing in masques and other entertainments until the king's death the following January. He walked behind Henry's velvet-draped coffin in the elaborate funeral procession, bare-headed and wings outspread.

Robbie can read between those lines easily enough. _They dressed him up in pretty clothes, fed him too many sweets, and treated him like a performing animal._ Taken from his parents at four, and from his replacement father-figure at seven, he had six months to accustom himself to his dazzling life at Court before being faced with the death of his new protector.

Tom seems to have been largely ignored during the first few years of the reign of Edward VI. At the age of ten or thereabouts, he was "removed to the Royal Menagerie at the Tower of London, where he occupied a small apartment between the lions and the apes." Once a day, he was taken out and permitted to fly in circles above the Menagerie for the amusement of visitors. _Christ Almighty! They put him in the bloody zoo? It's a wonder the poor kid didn't go mad._

In the spring of 1554, his daily flights were witnessed by Princess Elizabeth, then a prisoner in the Tower. She had never seen him before; at the time that Tom was given to Henry, Elizabeth was sequestered and rarely visited Court. History does not record what Elizabeth thought of the "fine, comely lad" of 14 who soared above the Tower like a hawk while dressed in silks as gaudy as a peacock. Did she envy his temporary freedom or feel sympathy for her fellow captive? In any case, Tom must have made a strong impression on the young princess. One of her first acts after her accession to the throne in 1558 was to have Tom brought to the palace.

Tom became a great favourite of the Queen, who called him "my Sprite". Shakespeare scholars believe that he was the inspiration for Ariel in _The Tempest_. He— Robbie stops reading. Happy ending, of a sort. Tom Martyn spent the rest of his life as a pampered pet: cosseted, indulged, treated as a royal treasure but also as something less than human.

Does James know about Tom Martyn? _He must do. _ Robbie imagines a younger James sitting in a Cambridge library, reading this article or one like it. _And I made him display himself to me. Made him show me his sodding wings. _Oh, he had good intentions; meant to take away some of Hathaway's nervous tension, but is he really any better than the looky-loos who went to the Tower to gawk at Tom?

Robbie looks at his watch and groans. That late already? He'd best get some sleep or tomorrow it'll be Hathaway taking care of him instead of the other way round. He minimises the tabs with his email and the article. He'll look at them again in the morning...

* * *

"Mrrrrrow!"

Robbie groans. A hungry, insistent cat six inches from his ear is a very effective alarm. He gives Monty a shove. "Stupid bloody moggy. Can't you wait until—" He glances at the alarm clock next to his bed and sits bolt upright. The sodding thing didn't go off and he's late. He grabs his mobile, sends James a quick text to say that he's on his way, brushes his teeth, and gets dressed. He's halfway to the car when he remembers to go back inside for the laptop.

His favourite cafe is too much of a detour if he's going straight to Hathaway's flat. There's a Costa on the way, so he pops in to get breakfast for them both. Two coffees—and why does he have to say "American" in Italian to get a normal cup of coffee?—and a couple of paninis. As best he can tell, a ham panini is a bacon butty with a posh continental name and a higher price. One of those for him and cheese and tomato for James. Right. There's breakfast sorted.

By the look of him, James hasn't been up long. His hair is rumpled and his eyelids drooping. His folded wings stick out through slits in his sweatshirt. The sight of them gives Robbie a jolt. For all his gawking yesterday, he's still not completely used to this new reality. He hopes James doesn't notice his reaction, but his sergeant's gaze is fixed on the two cardboard cups in Robbie's hands. "You are an answer to prayer, sir."

"Angel of mercy, that's me," Robbie says. "Besides, you're cranky enough when you're in pain; don't want to have to deal with you when you're caffeine-deprived, too."

After breakfast, Robbie motions for James to remain seated. "Take your top off."

James arches a sardonic brow. "So you can have your wicked way with me?"

"May as well change the bandage now, see how you're mending." He gestures at the black sweatshirt decorated with the logo of some band he's never heard of. "You need a hand with that?"

"If you wouldn't mind, sir. It's a bit difficult to get it unfastened." There are velcro dots along the edges of the slits, meant to keep them from gaping open.

There's something very intimate about removing someone else's clothing, even if that someone is another bloke and his sergeant besides. Robbie moves slowly, careful not to jostle the wounded area. Once the velcro is opened, he pulls the sweatshirt over James's head. The muscles beneath the pale skin are noticeable, though not bulging or overdeveloped. There was something about that in Sir Andrew's article, Robbie remembers. Stronger arms and shoulders than ordinary people. Stands to reason, he supposes. How else could he fly?

He removes the gauze bandage. What's beneath isn't pretty but there's no sign of inflammation or infection. He finishes the rest of the procedure as quickly as possible James sits very still, allowing Robbie to reposition his arm as he tapes the new bandage in place. The muscles of the lad's neck are stiff, and Robbie is willing to bet that's got nothing to do with his wound. He finishes up as quickly as he can. "Time for me to get some work done," he says matter-of-factly.

Putting up his laptop on James's desk seems intrusive, so Robbie settles himself on the sofa. There's plenty to keep him occupied, though it's duller than dishwater.

James moves from place to place. He sits in an armchair and reads. Ten minutes later he sets the book down and gets out his iPod. That distracts him for a full hour. He wanders into the kitchen and stands in front of the electric kettle. James turns on the tap, then carefully lifts the kettle with his left hand. Robbie hears a muttered curse. James sets the kettle down on the counter, flips the lid up, then picks up the kettle again and holds it under the tap to fill it. He clicks the switch and pulls a box out of the cupboard. "Sir? Tea?"

"I could do with a cuppa." Robbie walks into the kitchen and seats himself at the table. He tries not to make it obvious that he's watching his sergeant's every move. James takes out a second mug. He fumbles with the lid of the box of tea, which skitters along the counter, since he can't hold it in place with his other hand. He traps it against the back wall, then fishes inside and pulls out a couple of tea bags, dropping one into each mug. When the kettle whistles, Robbie holds his breath. He wants to offer help, but he's sure that James will refuse. The lad's pride is already feeling bruised. He relaxes slightly once the water's been poured.

James opens the fridge and removes a bottle of milk. Fortunately, it's already been opened; the seal on the cap would be impossible to manage one-handed. He holds the bottle over his mug and tilts it gently. Robbie's seen Laura handle dangerous chemicals in her lab with less care. A few drops trickle out. James adjusts the angle, and suddenly the bottle wobbles in his hand like a seesaw. A foamy white stream gushes out, missing the mug completely and forming a large puddle on the counter.

"Damn it!" James grabs a dishcloth from the sink and swipes at the puddle, sending some of the milk dripping over the edge onto the floor. "Fuck!"

Robbie winces. Part of him wants to rush over and help with the cleaning, to tell James not to worry, that a few minor mishaps are to be expected until he gets used to doing things cack-handed. But if he didn't already know better, his sergeant's stiff back and frozen expression are telling him that it would be a very, very bad idea. He's already making things more awkward just by being a witness to this incident.

James returns the milk to the fridge. Silently, he sets the mugs on the table, one at a time. His—old and slightly chipped—is decorated with the Cambridge University coat of arms.

"Ta." Robbie squints at his mug. It's white with graceful black letters spelling out something he can't pronounce or understand. "What's that say?"

"'Si hoc legere scis nimium eruditionis habes'", James says, the Latin falling as smoothly from his lips as English. "If you can read this, you are overeducated."

Robbie snorts. "Since you haven't got a Newcastle United mug, I suppose this will have to do."

"I appreciate your forbearance, sir."

They fall into silence, and Robbie once again detects that vague tension in James. It's as though he's waiting for a blow to fall. _Have I got to tell him again that I still want him as me sergeant?_ He's willing to say it a dozen times if that's what it'll take, but he suspects it would sound like that bit in Shakespeare about protesting too bloody much.

James finishes his tea and abruptly announces his intention to take a nap. It's probably a good idea, but Robbie can't help wondering if it isn't also an excuse for James to get away from him. He returns to his reports. When he finishes two more QD-75s, he sets the laptop down on the coffee table and closes the lid.

He awakens James with a soft rap on the bedroom door when lunch is ready. They chat idly about unimportant things. "Ready to write your statement about Murchison?" Robbie asks. James nods. "Tell you what... why don't you give it to me orally, and I'll type it?"

James winces. "With respect, sir, I think I could type it faster, even one-handed."

Robbie doubts that, but it won't hurt to let the lad do it himself. "As you wish." He places the laptop on the kitchen table in front of James.

His sergeant frowns at the monitor. "How do you get anything done with so many tabs open? It substantially slows down the—" His face is expressionless, his hands frozen above the keyboard.

Robbie shoves back his chair and walks around the table to stand behind James. In the centre of the screen is the portrait of Elizabeth I and her "Sprite". _Bugger. _ "James..."

"No, there's no need to explain, sir," James replies, and his voice is as icily polite as Robbie has ever heard it. "I realise that I'm rather dull by comparison. Not very flamboyant. And I haven't any entertaining anecdotes about the Royal Family to offer."

"I don't want to be entertained," Robbie snaps. "I was doing research so I wouldn't have to ask you questions. You're a very private person—knew that about you long before I knew about _this_." He waves curtly at James's wings. "Wanted to know what to do, what not to say. Even if you didn't mind me asking daft questions, I wouldn't know what to ask."

James strides away from the table. His wing-tips flick upwards in what Robbie suspects is an angry reflex. He wonders that he ever thought to compare James to a pet budgie, even in jest. These are the movements of a hawk or an eagle. A predator. James stands facing the covered windows, his back to Robbie. Suddenly, his shoulders sag, and he folds his wings neatly. When he turns around, he looks calm but tired. "Sir..."

Robbie holds up a hand. "Enough apologies. If you start again, then I've got to do the same." Now he understands what has been keeping James on edge. He's been waiting for Robbie to start prying, asking nosy questions.

James paces behind the sofa. "What do you want to know, sir?"

"I dunno... what was it like for you as a kid?" Robbie asks, and immediately bites back a curse. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets to hide his clenched fists. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ He already has reasons to suspect that James did not have an ideal childhood, even if that bloody old pervert Mortmaigne never touched him.

"There's not really much to tell." James paces some more. "Growing up at Crevecoeur, it was very... insular. All the other kids on the estate knew me. They teased me for being different, just like they teased Paul for his stammer, and Harry for his ginger hair, but they were never vicious about it. It was my life. It was what I knew." He's calm and matter-of-fact about it.

_Stupid sodding idiot!_ Robbie realises that he's been bracing himself for some dark revelation when he already knows the big secret of James's childhood. There's a rift with the parents, he'll bet, unless they're dead, but Hathaway's wings are enough to explain why he was so tense and close-mouthed during the investigation at Crevecoeur.

"I had jobs at home and lessons and Mass on Sundays," James continues. "Every year Mrs. Furnivall, the housekeeper up at the Hall, organised a Christmas pageant."

"Suppose I can guess what you were."

James scowls. "They made me wear a dress."

"A _dress_?"

"Near enough. A long white robe, made from some satiny polyester. I wanted to be a shepherd. Or a camel."

With great effort, Robbie holds back laughter. He can perfectly envision a young James, shaggy blond hair hanging below the neckline of his white robe, wings twitching restlessly, and a very unangelic pout on his face. "I'll bet you were a right brat sometimes."

"Me, sir?" James's eyes widen in a look of exaggerated innocence.

This time, Robbie can't help himself. He bursts out laughing. "Did you ever go where you shouldn't have?" He flutters the fingers of one hand, gesturing upwards.

"The first time I ever flew higher than the hayloft, I wound up on the roof of the chapel. I panicked. I was certain that I couldn't get down. It should have been very easy—a slow, fixed-wing glide would have done nicely—but I managed to convince myself that I was going to fall to my death. So I sat astride the roof ridge and waited for someone to come within shouting distance."

"What happened?"

"Father Thirlwell saw me and fetched my parents. My mother wanted to get a ladder, or maybe call the fire brigade. My father said that I had to learn to get myself out of my own messes, and that I'd come down when I got hungry."

"And did you?"

"Oh, yes. Five o'clock came around, and I knew there was cheese on toast and apple crumble for tea. I was quite willing to risk my neck for apple crumble." James smiles at the memory.

"But you haven't gone flying lately," Robbie says, letting his words balance halfway between statement and question.

James stares at him. It's the '_are you completely bonkers?' _ look he sometimes gives to particularly dimwitted witnesses. "There's very little privacy around here, sir. It's not worth the risk of being seen. I gave it a try a few years back—for the first time since university, actually. Drove out into the countryside on a moonless night, but there are very few places in Britain that are completely dark. Light pollution is everywhere." He twitches his pale gold wings. "And I haven't exactly got protective colouration."

Robbie remembers a detail from Sir Andrew's article: feather colour usually follows hair colour. If James was dark-haired instead of blond, he might have had an easier time of it.

"I was up for... oh, maybe twenty minutes. I was severely out of practice, so I was tired and distracted when I landed near my car. That was my first mistake. I should have landed elsewhere and covered up before approaching a vehicle that could be used to _identify me_." He pronounces the last two words with angry emphasis.

Robbie realises that he hasn't thought about all the implications of his partner's 'difference'. If discovered, James risks more than stares or jeers. His whole life could be turned upside down. _Bloody paparazzi would be hounding him like he was a film star or a Royal_. Unlike wealthy celebrities, James doesn't have the protection of a gated estate or a secret holiday villa in Switzerland. He's got an ordinary flat in an ordinary neighbourhood, and a very public job. He wouldn't even have the option of waiting for interest to blow over. Because of what he is, he will be a potential tabloid-magnet until he's old and grey and too feeble to fly. _It took a lot of courage for him to show himself to Innocent. _"What was the second mistake?"

James's laugh is as bright, cold and sharp as a knife blade. "I proceeded to compound my carelessness with utter stupidity. When I landed, I somehow failed to notice the man leaning against my car—until he let out a shriek worthy of a banshee. He was extremely drunk."

Even a sober person might be startled to have a tall, winged man suddenly descend from the night sky. Robbie can imagine the scene: a dark country lane; James, dressed all in black clothing that contrasts starkly with his pale skin, hair, and wings; looking like a 21st century avenging angel.

"What happened?"

"He ran away as fast as he could."

"And you?"

James studies a blank spot on the far wall. "Once I stopped shaking I got into my car and drove home. I spent the next two weeks watching the newspapers for any hint that the guy had talked about his encounter. When I didn't see anything I decided that I'd been far luckier than I deserved, and that I wouldn't risk it again."

What does it feel like to soar through the sky? It would be cruel to ask. James must miss it something fierce. If the need to fly had driven his usually cautious sergeant to risk exposure, it must be thrilling beyond anything a... groundling like him can imagine. When had the daring youngster who tested the limits of his abilities discovered that a tumble from the chapel roof was not the worst danger of flying? How old had he been when he learned the need to hide his true nature from the world?

He fumbles for the right words. "When did you realise that you were different from other kids in a way that's not like having... oh, I dunno, different colour hair or a stammer?"

Without a word, James turns and walks into the kitchen. He seats himself at Robbie's laptop where the picture of the Queen and Tom is still visible on the screen, scrolls down to the long bibliography and points at one entry.

Robbie looks. It's a biography of Tom Martyn, privately published in 1872 by some Victorian gentleman scholar.

"Only one hundred copies were ever printed," James says quietly. "One of them was in the library at Crevecoeur. Of course, I hardly ever went into the Hall. One day Scarlett—Lady Scarlett Mortmaigne—came running into the hayloft where I was playing. She said, 'James, James, come see! I've got a book about a boy like you!'"

Robbie feels a cold lump in his belly. James left Crevecoeur when he was twelve. How old had he been when he learned about Tom's miserable childhood?

"I was excited," James continues. "I'd never heard of anyone like me. Never imagined that there could be others. I thought she meant a boy my own age, a living person whom I could meet. I took the book home with me, hid it in my room, and read it in secret that night. Some of the words confused me. It was written in a very florid style," he says, shrugging, "and I was six."

_Six? _Christ, how could a six-year-old possibly understand all the ugly details of Tom Martyn's life? "Did you talk to your parents about it?"

James gives him a look that's almost pitying. "Children—even ordinary children—learn quite young that there are certain things that Are Not Discussed. In some families it might be Mummy's 'cheer-up' medicine, or the source of Father's income, or Uncle Andy's special friend."

In the Hathaway home, James had been the family's unmentionable secret. _Poor kid._ "So you read the book," Robbie prompts.

"When I started reading, my first reaction was disappointment that Tom was long dead, and that I could never meet him. Later, though... I understood why we didn't talk about my difference, why I had to hide when outsiders were about, why I was rarely allowed to leave the estate, and never without my wings bound up and covered. When I finished the book, I was quite certain that if 'they' ever found me, I'd be taken to London and locked up in the Tower." James's smile sends a chill down Robbie's spine. "Tom Martyn taught me everything I needed to know about being a freak."

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

"I don't like that word," Robbie snaps.

"It's accurate," James retorts. "'Freak: a person, animal, or plant with an unusual physical abnormality.' Are you going to tell me that doesn't apply?" He raises his left wing until it brushes the ceiling.

"Who called you that?" If he had the guilty party in front of him just now, Robbie might be in danger of committing Grievous Bodily Harm.

From the distant look in James's eyes, he's twenty years or more too late to take vengeance for his partner. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters. _You _matter," Robbie insists.

"It was a lesson I needed to learn in order to function in the real world." James circles around to the front of the sofa and sits down.

"Is this why you left the seminary?"

"No, this is why I went _into _the seminary. The Church calls it a blessing," James says bitterly. "A visible manifestation of God's favour, and a sign that the person may be called to a vocation in His service. Father Thirlwell started talking to me about the priesthood shortly after I made my First Communion."

Robbie blinks. _That young? _ He remembers Lyn, long ago, telling him about the lacy white dress and veil her friend Maureen got to wear to church. The girls had been seven, maybe eight at the most. So this priesthood talk would have been _after_ James read about Tom Martyn. He'd have seen only two choices for his future: a life as a servant of God... or as a public curiosity. _No choice at all. _ If what he suspects is true, there's no great mystery about Hathaway's departure from the seminary. _He'd been telling himself all his life that he had a vocation as a priest, but eventually, he realised it wasn't so. Or the seminary authorities realised it wasn't so. _Either way, he suddenly found himself without a direction in life.

James has always made light of his expulsion, with jokes about fish pie and the like. But Robbie has been called to the scene of one too many suicides—young people who'd killed themselves after being sent down from university. Mostly they'd been kids already burdened with serious problems, but didn't that describe James? Had he ever been tempted? Or had the legendary Hathaway stubbornness saved him from himself?

"James... I'm not good at this. You're the one I depend on to be clever with words, only this time, you've got it all wrong. You are not a freak. You are... a marvel. A wonder. And you are..." Robbie wants to say 'beautiful', but that sounds like he's comparing James to flowers or butterflies, and he's thinking of awe-inspiring sights like shooting stars and tigers and glaciers. 'Thing of beauty' is closer, but 'thing' is a dangerous word to use in this situation. "Sod it! I'm not the poetical sort. I can't quote the boys in the band. I know I'm making a right mess of this, but I want you to understand how I see you. You are magnificent. And that's on top of being a bloody genius and a great copper, and the best mate a man could hope for." He shakes his head in frustration. "You're a wonder," he repeats.

James looks at Robbie as if he's never seen him before. As if he's a vital clue to... something. It's more than a bit unnerving, to tell the truth. What is going on in that oversized brain? "Tell me what you're thinking."

"It's a very unexpected reversal of the usual order of things: you quoting the Bible at me. Did you know that psalm already, or did you search for it?"

Robbie frowns. "What are you talking about?" Even when he still believed in God he wasn't much of a churchgoer. The only psalm he knows is 'The Lord's my shepherd', the one they sometimes read at funerals.

James continues to stare at him, transfixed, as if his governor is the amazing one here. Him, Robbie Lewis from Newcastle, as common as they come. A good copper, yeah, and clever enough on the job, but not a legend like Morse was, and as Hathaway could someday become. An ordinary man, in the autumn of his years. Plain, down-to-earth (and that phrase has new meaning now). He's content with himself and his life, but he's nobody special.

He says something under his breath. Robbie can make out just enough of it to know it's not English.

"Translation, if you please?"

"For so many marvels I thank you; a wonder am I, and all your works are wonders," James murmurs.

"And that is... what, exactly?"

"Psalm 139, verse 14. That's a Catholic translation, from the New Jerusalem Bible. You'd probably know the King James Version." He shuts his eyes in concentration. "'I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works.'"

"Never read that one," Robbie says carefully, "but it sounds fitting."

"My advisor at the seminary assigned that psalm to me as a spiritual exercise. I thought at first that he chose it because it has a passing reference to wings. 'If I speed away on the wings of the dawn, if I dwell beyond the ocean, even there your hand will be guiding me, your right hand holding me fast.'"

"But that's just poetry, right? It's not talking about actual wings." Just when he thought his life couldn't get any stranger, here he is doing literary analysis of the sodding Bible. If there is a God, he must be laughing right now.

"It's a metaphor; a fanciful way for the Psalmist to declare that God is always with him. It took me a very long time to realise that my advisor wanted me to concentrate on verse 14."

"The one about being a wonder?" Robbie asks. James nods. "Which is talking about all human beings, I reckon. Miracle of life and all that."

"I can't tell you how many times I read that psalm over and over, even recited it aloud. I burned the words into my brain, but I couldn't believe that it applied to me."

"I can't help you with all that God and Bible stuff. It's rubbish as far as I'm concerned. All I can tell you is what I know—not because I read it in some book, but because I've seen it myself." He fixes James with his eyes, wills him to listen and to accept. "James Hathaway, you are a wonder."

"I don't... I can't..."

"Can't what? Can't believe me? Have I ever lied to you, sergeant? _Ever_?"

"_You've _never lied to me, sir."

Robbie notices the stress on the first word. Just about everyone in Hathaway's life has lied to him, it seems. His parents lied through silence, by not telling him the truths he needed to hear: that he was a good kid and deserving of love. His Church lied to him, pushing him into a life he wasn't suited for, and letting him think the inevitable failure was his own. And worst of all, James has been lying to himself for most of his life. "I'm not lying to you now," Robbie says with quiet authority, "and we'll talk more, later. Right now, I think you're ready for another nap. You look done in."

"I am feeling a bit tired," James says. The fact that he's mentioning it at all instead of snarking at Robbie means he's flat-out exhausted.

"Off with you then." Only when the bedroom door has closed behind James does Robbie allow himself to collapse onto the sofa. He rubs a weary hand across his face. A lie-down sounds very appealing just now, though he usually thinks of naps as being for children, invalids, and doddering pensioners. He can't afford to waste the time. He's got some thinking to do.

He sits at the kitchen table, staring into a mug of tea. What a sodding mess he's made of things... or has he? The outburst triggered by his stupid mistake may have done the lad some good. It's not enough. This is one of those rare cases where he'd actually recommend counselling, if he thought there was anyone who was halfway competent to deal with such a case. And if James would actually go. _Not bloody likely. _No, James will have to make do with his well-meaning and hopelessly-out-of-his-depth governor.

What has he got to work with? Robbie makes a mental list. He's been a copper enough years to know something about human nature, and he probably knows more about James Hathaway than anyone else. And he's a fair detective. _Never mind all that psychology rubbish_—_treat this like a case. _What has he learned today about James?

He grew up with conflicting messages about his difference from the authority figures in his life. His priest told him it was a blessing from God; his parents told him indirectly through their actions that he was an oddity who should hide himself away. It's a wonder they let him fly at all. Robbie supposes that James might have done his flying in secret, but that's not the impression he got. If they disapproved, why didn't they make him wear the binder all the time, even at home?

_Mortmaigne_. The other authority figure of James's childhood. Robbie would bet his pension on it. Based on the testimony from Briony Grahame and others, Augustus Mortmaigne preferred to prey on young teenagers. James left Crevecoeur at the age of 12, so he was most likely spared that particular horror. Still, he spent most of his childhood under the thumb of a soulless, manipulative bastard who treated his tenants as property. Robbie's thoughts are racing now. Mortmaigne was attracted to innocence. He admired beauty. Collected fine art. A beautiful blond boy with wings would be a living treasure—one to be prized and secretly gloated over. It was certainly no coincidence that the library at Crevecoeur contained a copy of a rare book about the most famous winged boy in history.

Robbie can imagine a conversation between the bloody Lord of the Manor and his estate manager. "Let the boy fly as much as he pleases, Hathaway. Nothing wrong with some harmless fun, eh? Just as long as he doesn't go too far out of sight—wouldn't want him to come to harm where no one can find him. He can soar over the south lawn and the knot garden. Her Ladyship is fond of the lad, and Scarlett loves to watch him. Providing that he doesn't land on the rose bushes, he may go where he likes."

And what could Hathaway Senior say in response to the man who was his employer and his landlord? Unless he wanted to be looking for a new position, it would have to be an obedient "Yes, m'lord".

How did James's father feel about his lordship's interest in his son? Grateful? It probably meant that his position was secure. Or was he resentful, half-suspecting that his employment owed more to his son's unusual nature than to his own abilities? Robbie is very sure that it was never Mortmaigne who called James 'freak'. His detective's instincts are pointing him in a very different (and unpleasant) direction.

What happened next? That's where Robbie has no evidence, only speculation. The Hathaways left Crevecoeur when James was 12—no, that's not quite right. What James told him during the Black investigation was, "I lived here until I was 12 years old." Could be that his parents stayed on the estate when James went off to that posh school. Did Mortmaigne pay his school fees, perhaps as an attempt to bind James to him with gratitude? Probably not. Attending a good school made it easier for James to go to university, to make an independent life for himself. Most likely he won a scholarship. He must have had some kind of a scholarship at university. Room and board come to a tidy sum in Oxford; Cambridge wouldn't be any cheaper.

James graduated from Cambridge with a starred First in Theology. This part is fact, not a guess. Robbie has access to some of his sergeant's records, especially those having to do with education and skills. He hasn't seen the more personal documents that give details about family. He could get at them, but that would be a violation of trust, and what James needs more than anything is to be able to trust someone.

All Robbie has to do is be that someone. It's very simple and utterly terrifying.

* * *

James emerges from his bedroom several hours later. Did he get any sleep? Robbie isn't certain. James looks calmer. He's quiet and subdued, but he meets Robbie's gaze directly when he says he's feeling better. "I'll get my statement typed now."

James seats himself in front of the laptop. After a moment of silent thought, he begins to type. He's not working at his usual lightning speed, but he's not as slow as a snail, either. He's got his sling pushed back to his elbow, and occasionally uses the first two fingers of his right hand for keys on that side of the keyboard. Robbie watches carefully for a few minutes, but doesn't see any grimaces of pain. And it's not as though the lad is putting all that much strain on his arm. _He'll be all right_, he tells himself, and opens the fridge to study the prospects for dinner.

"Finished." James pushes his chair back. "Care to take a look, sir?"

"Just one mo..." Robbie sets a pan of water on the hob. That done, he sits down in front of the computer. "Good. I'll email it to Innocent. She'll want a signed copy when you return to work, but this'll do for now."

They chat over spag bol and salad about nothing in particular. Robbie tries very hard not to analyse James's every word, look, and gesture. That talk they had earlier was like lancing a boil. A lot of foul, putrid stuff came out—stuff that had been festering for years—but that doesn't mean there isn't more inside. Doesn't mean he's cured now, or that he won't be vulnerable to new infections. What it does mean is that James is better than he was yesterday. For now, that will have to be enough.

Robbie does the washing up, then takes a bottle of beer from the fridge. He suggests they watch something mindless on the telly.

"Actually, sir... I was thinking... I'm getting rather rank. Time for a shower."

"_Can _you take a shower?" Robbie asks.

James gives him a sour look. "I'm not an ostrich, sir. I won't get waterlogged."

"Not what I meant, soft lad. Can you take a shower with that?" He touches his own right shoulder on the spot where James has a bandaged wound.

"Oh! Sorry. Yeah, it's okay. Sir Andrew said I ought to wait 48 hours. And obviously, I'll need a fresh bandage afterwards."

"Right. Let me know if you need a hand."

James waggles the fingers of his left hand. "I think I can make do with this one, sir, but thanks for the offer." He heads into the bathroom.

Robbie gets comfortable on the sofa and turns on the telly. He's still flipping channels when James returns, barefooted and smiling sheepishly. "Sir, if you wouldn't mind..." He gestures at the right side of his t-shirt, partially fastened shut with velcro patches. "I'm getting the knack of doing this one-handed but something seems to be stuck. Thanks."

While James showers, Robbie watches a repeat of the _Top Gear_ polar episode. It's ridiculous, but it distracts him from listening too closely to the sounds from the bathroom. Would he even hear the _thump_of an accidental fall over the roar of running water? He tells himself not to be foolish. James would cry out if anything of the sort happened, and besides, it's not as though he's got problems with balance or dizziness.

Richard Hammond racing a dog-sled to the sodding North Pole distracts him enough that he doesn't notice the sudden quiet of the water being turned off. The Inuit dogs pulling the sled are beautiful animals. He'd love to see them in action with a driver who really knows what he's doing. Still, he's got to give Hammond credit for— _SnapSnapSnapSnapSnap! _Robbie's off the sofa and halfway to the bathroom before he realises what he's hearing. That dull rattling sound is James shaking water off his wings.

He returns to the sofa, chuckling softly. This is—what was that phrase he heard on the radio?—his 'new normal'. Spag bol for dinner, watching _Top Gear_, and listening to his sergeant flap his wings dry. He remembers Morse quoting some Oxford scientist, "_The Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we _can _suppose."_

Robbie lifts his beer bottle in salute. "Right you are, sir."

* * *

The next day, they start their new schedule. Robbie drops in first thing in the morning, then again at lunchtime, and after work. "The minute I walked into the nick, everyone was asking after you," he tell James at lunch.

"_Every_one?" How James fits that much sarcasm into a single word, Robbie will never understand. "I can't imagine that Hooper was bemoaning my absence. Or Ripley."

In fact, Hooper had had some sharp remarks about lazy, overeducated toffs, though he shut his gob fast enough when he saw Lewis glowering at him. "Hooper was his usual charming self," Robbie concedes, "and I didn't see Ripley, but most of the rest of the team asked after you, wanted to know when you'd be back. Innocent sends her regards." Robbie chuckles. "Actually, what she said was, 'Tell Sergeant Hathaway to get well as quickly as possible.' I think it was more of an order than a greeting."

"One that I will happily obey to the best of my ability."

"And this is from Gurdip." Robbie removes a small plastic container from his coat pocket. "Some sort of sweet, I think."

James lifts the lid and takes a sniff. His eyes widen.

"That bad, is it?"

"No! Not at all. This is his grandmother's homemade halwa. He always smuggles some home with him after he visits her in Amritsar, and hoards it like gold. Did you tell him I was on my death-bed?"

"_I _didn't have a chance to tell him anything," Robbie says, chuckling. "Been here with you, remember? Innocent spread the word about you being on leave."

"And since she can't explain why I'm off for two weeks, everyone no doubt assumes that my injury is much worse than it is."

"Right. They think you've got a bullet hole in your shoulder, are taking painkillers, and have to avoid strain on your arm to prevent nerve damage." Robbie clucks his tongue. "Bloody layabout, you are." James's mouth twitches slightly, acknowledging the quip, but he doesn't look reassured. "Tell you what: tonight I'll bring you some old files to read through. Help keep your mind busy while your body is resting."

Robbie returns to James's flat that evening bearing Chinese takeaway and a briefcase full of cold cases. He's glad to see James tuck into his dinner, finishing his fair share of the steamed vegetable dumplings and honey spare ribs, and making a good attempt at the beef in black bean sauce. His sergeant's true appetite is revealed when he hurries from the table and opens a thick case folder with the enthusiasm of a child presented with an especially large portion of sticky toffee pudding. He takes ten minutes to study the summaries, then sets the files aside. Robbie hopes that he'll save them for the next day and not keep himself up all night.

They turn on the telly. Robbie flips the remote, pausing when he sees something familiar. He chuckles. "'Carry On, Henry'—haven't seen that in years."

James stares at him. "You're joking, sir. _Please _tell me you're joking."

On screen, a tipsy Henry VIII offers a flagon to a young woman—a stereotypical dimwitted blonde whose breasts are nearly falling out of her fancy gown. She protests that drink inflames the ardour. Henry takes another swig, and grins. "Yes. The more you drink, the 'arder it gets."

Robbie grimaces. He hasn't seen this one since it first came out in the early 70s. He went to the cinema with a couple of mates, and they all thought it was hilarious. _Young men can be proper fools_. He clicks the channel button. "Let's see if we can't find something better."

He finds a documentary about an American archaeological expedition in Turkey that was searching for the remains of Noah's ark. James rolls his eyes, but he doesn't object. Instead, he begins a detailed explanation of why the notion is absurd, from a biblical and scientific viewpoint. The conversation soon veers away from Noah, and hopscotches its way through geology, the history of shipbuilding, international politics, and a dozen other topics. Robbie doesn't know when he stops watching the documentary. It seems like just a few minutes later when he glances at the telly and sees a presenter talking about a dog show. He picks up the remote and clicks 'off'.

It's a good evening, and as he drives home, he reflects on how much he's enjoyed being with James these last few days. Pity about the reason, of course, but he's been having a very good time. And so has James, he's sure. James has been more relaxed than Robbie has ever seen him: laughing, chatting, joking.

It makes what follows even more difficult to understand. The next morning, he lets himself in to James's flat, and finds his sergeant sitting at the kitchen table. James has showered this morning, judging by his damp, tidily combed hair. He's neatly dressed in jeans and a plain black t-shirt. In front of him is a plate that bears evidence of a recently-eaten breakfast: bread crumbs and smears of egg.

James sets down his mug of tea. "Good morning, sir. Would you like some tea?"

Robbie shakes his head. "Already had one, thanks. Look, I won't be able to make it over here for lunch. Innocent has scheduled a meeting, and there's no getting out of it. For dinner, I was—"

"Actually, sir, I've been thinking about that. You've been extremely kind these past few days, and I do appreciate the assistance, but there's really no need for me to continue imposing on you like this."

"Imposing? You're not imposing." He stops himself before he can tell James not to be a sodding idiot.

"As I said, I'm very grateful for all you've done." He sounds completely sincere.

His mind is spinning. _What brought this on? _"If you're sure... It's really no trouble for me to drop in."

James stands and sets his breakfast dishes in the sink. "Obviously I'm not fit for work yet, but I can take care of myself well enough."

That's true. James has adapted very well to doing things left-handed. He's been doing his exercises regularly, and can use his right hand for tasks that don't require much strength or precision. _He's a grown man. He doesn't want a minder._ "Right, then," Robbie says, trying to sound casual and unconcerned. "I'll be off. Ring me if you—if there's anything you need." With a nod, he turns and walks off.

* * *

He doesn't get much work done that morning. At first he's bewildered. What did he say or do to make James shut him out so abruptly? Was he too much of a mother hen? He doesn't think so. Had James been humouring him? Tolerating his old governor... until he lost his patience? That doesn't feel right, but it's not easy to understand what goes on in that overactive, complicated brain. As the day wears on, his bewilderment turns to hurt, tinged with anger. Innocent's bloody meeting is a blessed distraction, as he has to concentrate on what's being said.

It's a temporary respite, and he feels his anger growing throughout the afternoon. He holds it in well enough, though he notices that his team is staying clear of his office unless it's unavoidable. At a few minutes past five he shuts down his computer and walks out.

In the car park he hears his name being called, and turns to see Laura hurrying towards him. He waits for her to catch up.

"Robbie, is James all right?" She sounds worried.

"Erm... yeah. He was fine when I saw him this morning. The wound's healing well, and he can use the arm a bit."

Laura's expressive brows shoot up. "In that case, I'll change my question: are _you _all right? You had a face like a thundercloud when I saw you earlier, but you were going into a meeting, and I didn't want to interrupt."

"Just a bit out of sorts. Nothing serious."

Those clear blue eyes study him, and Robbie is reminded that Laura's business may be with the dead, but she's a shrewd observer of the living, too. "I have a baked chicken cutlet waiting for me at home," she says, "along with mixed veg and brown rice. It's terribly healthy and nutritious, but I have a dreadful craving for something sauteed and drowned in a butter-wine sauce. Unless you have a better offer, I suggest we go to Mario's, where I can abuse my arteries and you can tell me all about the 'nothing serious' that has you out of sorts."

Mario's is overflowing with a noisy crowd who just got out of the cinema, but La Piccola Casa has a quiet table in the back. Laura barely glances at the menu before ordering chicken piccata with linguine; Robbie takes several minutes to decide on lasagne. At the waiter's suggestion, they split a small bottle of Pinot Grigio.

Robbie takes a swallow of wine. "Ta, Laura. I reckon that this is what I needed."

She raises her glass in acknowledgement. "What are friends for?" She doesn't press him to talk, for which he's grateful.

Maybe it's the wine, or just the undemanding company, but sometime between the salads and the mains he blurts out, "I've bollocksed things up with James."

Blessedly, she doesn't offer platitudes and false reassurances. Like the good friend that she is, she leans forward and says simply, "Tell me."

And he does. Not everything—no, not by a long shot. Even if Laura does know Hathaway's big secret, he's got no right to share the other things he's learned. He tells Laura what she's surely guessed: that James has had a difficult life, that people have let him down, that he finds it hard to trust anyone. "It was a bit rocky at the start, but we got past it. He trusts me, I'll swear he does. And we were having some good times, him and me, like best mates do. Especially last night." He exhales heavily. "Then this morning, he's all cool and polite. 'Very grateful for your assistance, sir, but I'm fine now. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.'" At Laura's sceptical glance, he adds, "No, he didn't say that last bit, though he may as well have done."

"Best mates," Laura murmurs. The look on her face is one that he's most used to seeing when she's working, whether in the lab or in the field. Analytical. Puzzle-solving. She'd make a good detective, if she were a copper. "Did you actually tell him that you consider him your best mate?"

"Course I did," he protests. "Days ago."

"And what did he say in return?"

He tries to remember. It was in the middle of that nasty blow-up about James calling himself a 'freak'. They'd both had a great deal to say. "He didn't say anything in particular about that. There was a lot going on, and we were both a bit worked up."

"Oh, Robbie..." Laura sighs. "To sum up—" She ticks the points off on her fingers. "You don't know if he heard you, you don't know if he believes you, and you don't know if he feels the same way."

Put like that, he feels a right idiot. "He knows I won't lie to him."

"Knowing something and believing it are two very different things."

That's true enough. He's seen it quite often, in his own personal life and on the job. Even when you want to believe something, it can be a challenge.

Laura cocks her head and gives him another appraising look. "I'm not going to give you advice on what to do about James. He's _your _awkward sod, as you told me once, and you've got to make your own decisions. What I will do is ask you some questions." She raises a hand, signalling for him to wait. "You don't have to tell me the answers—in fact, it would be better if you didn't."

"The Socratic method, eh?"

"Good Lord! Nothing that pretentious—just a few questions to help you sort your thoughts." She scatters them throughout the meal, enquiring about James's background and social life, and asking Robbie what he himself means when he says 'best mate'. At no point does she seem to expect him to reply, which is a good thing, since he doesn't know half the answers and isn't comfortable sharing the other half.

By the time the pudding arrives (they share a plate of chocolate profiteroles), Robbie's thoughts are sorted as well as can be expected. He's still not certain what's going on with James. If this was a case he'd be telling Innocent that he's pursuing a few leads.

* * *

He's not a man who likes waiting. Part of him would like nothing better than to drive straight to James's flat and settle this now. The sensible part of him—the experienced copper, the long-married man—knows that rushing in can be a dreadful mistake. Better to wait.

For two days, he contents himself with a brief daily phone call. "_Doing okay? Need anything?"_ The answers, brief and polite, are exactly what he expected. "_Fine. No, but thank you, sir."_

On the third day, fate lends a hand. A phone call summons him into the Chief Super's office. He enters warily, but she just gives him a distracted nod while sifting through a stack of papers on her desk. "Robbie. There's a parcel here I'd like you to deliver."

"A parcel, ma'am?" Long practice helps him keep his voice even. If she needs something delivered, why doesn't she summon one of the office staff, or a PC if it has to be a copper? He's a Detective Inspector, for Christ's sake, not sodding Postman Pat.

"For Sergeant Hathaway. It was addressed to me, but there's a note inside indicating that the contents are for him." She points at a medium-sized box on the corner of her desk. The return address is Edinburgh.

_From Sir Andrew? Must be. _"What is it, ma'am?"

"How on Earth should I know? I'm not in the habit of opening other people's mail unless it's connected to an investigation. Hathaway can tell you, if he chooses to. You will be seeing him soon, Inspector Lewis?"

He knows an order when he hears one, even if it's phrased as a question. "Yes, ma'am. I'll be dropping in after work tonight."

He debates calling ahead. After much thought, he decides that advance warning will only give James an opportunity to prepare excuses to keep him out. He uses his key to enter the building, then knocks on the door of Hathaway's flat.

"Sir?" It really is amazing how much his sergeant can fit into that one short syllable. Surprised, puzzled, and perhaps just a little bit pleased.

"Evening, James. Got a delivery for you. Innocent asked me to bring it over." Robbie jerks his chin at the box in his arms. He steps through the doorway, and James automatically moves aside to let him pass. "Where d'ye want me to put it?"

"Erm... the coffee table. What is it?"

"Dunno. It was mailed to you care of the Chief Super, from Edinburgh." As soon as Robbie sets it down, he turns away from the table. Last thing he wants to do is give James the idea that he's trying to snoop. He shoves his hands into his pockets. "I'll let you get back to whatever I interrupted."

As he'd hoped, Hathaway's innate courtesy takes over. "Actually, sir, I was about to have a beer. If you'd like to join me?" He catches Robbie's look of surprise. "I've finished with the painkillers. It's been more than 24 hours, so I can celebrate with my first drink since..." He gestures at his shoulder.

Equipped with two bottles of Bridge, they settle down on the sofa. James takes his first sip. "Lovely. I don't drink all that much, and I wouldn't have thought it would be a hardship to do without alcohol for a week. I didn't _need _it," he says firmly, "but I've been very conscious of wanting it."

"With me, it was cheese," Robbie confides.

James cocks his head. "Cheese?"

"This was years ago. I had a throat infection and was taking pills for two weeks. The doctor told me I had to avoid beer and red wine, though spirits were all right, for some reason. There was a list of foods, too. I don't remember most of them. Bacon, kippers, bangers, pickled eggs... and any kind of aged cheese. No problem, I thought. Plenty of other foods in the world. It's not like I was a young lad, having a fry-up every morning." He takes another swig of beer. "I never knew how much cheese I ate until I had to do without. I felt like Wallace, pining for his bloody Wensleydale. One of the happiest days of my life, it was, when I walked into the pub and ordered a ploughman's lunch."

James nods. "Human beings are creatures of habit. If you get used to having something in your life, it's hard to do without it." He retrieves a pair of scissors from his desk, and carefully opens his box. There's a sealed letter, which he sets aside, and something wrapped in brown paper, with a yellow sticky note on it. James passes the sticky note to Robbie. '_I understand that yours was cut off in A&E. I hope you will find the enclosed to be a satisfactory replacement. You can best repay me by not wearing it before time. A.F.M.'_

Robbie squints at the item James is holding. Some kind of garment. It looks a bit like a long waistcoat made of white spandex, but oddly shaped, and with straps dangling from it. "What's that?"

"It's a binder. For my wings. They cut my old one off me in hospital. I have a spare, but I made it when I was in my first year at university, and it doesn't fit very well." His long fingers trace the nearly invisible seams. "It looks like this one will be much more comfortable. Not as many backaches."

Robbie is willing to bet that this binder was custom-tailored for James. "That was kind of Sir Andrew."

"Yes, very kind," James murmurs, and his smile is bittersweet as he busies himself with folding the binder with excessive care.

Time to say his piece, Robbie decides. This is as good a moment as he's likely to get. "I think I may owe you an apology." Immediately, he has his sergeant's full attention. "I got something interesting in the post last week. Do you remember Philip Horton? Nell Buckley's friend?"

"The painter? Yes, of course." James looks understandably confused. Robbie is going about this arse backwards, after all.

He retrieves the postcard from his coat pocket. "Some of his work is going to be in an exhibit. It's a group show, but at a proper gallery. Not just student stuff, I mean. I thought I might drop in, take a look, only—" He falters. "I reckoned I'd wait until you were fully mended so we could go together. Maybe have dinner after. And then it occurred to me that perhaps I'd been taking too much for granted."

James is full-out gawking at him now.

"I told you the other day that you're me best mate. An' that's the honest truth, but I didn't stop to think if you—about how you feel. It can be an awkward thing, being mates with your governor, and I started wondering if I'd been presuming too much. If you'd been humouring me..." Sod it! He'd had a carefully rehearsed speech, but it seems to have vanished, along with all of the moisture in his throat.

"You wanted to go with me to the gallery... _after _I come back to work?" James asks in the same careful tone of voice he uses in interviews when nailing down an important detail.

"Well, yeah. Couldn't do it now." The cape from the charity shop covers James's wings, but doesn't really conceal them. It's good enough for in and out of the car, in the dark. In normal lighting, he looks like a hunchback from an old horror movie, or like an inept shoplifter wearing a rucksack under his clothing.

James drops his head. "I thought you were being kind. Entertaining me because I was stuck at home and couldn't go out." The puzzle pieces come together into a clear picture. Humans are creatures of habit, as James rightly said. He hadn't wanted to get used to a closer companionship, only to lose it when he was fully healed.

Robbie isn't sure if he feels complimented or insulted. 'Kind' is good, he supposes, but playing at friendship for kindness's sake? One of Laura's questions echoes in his mind: "_Has James ever had a close friend as an adult?"_

And then he remembers a conversation he once overheard between Val and her mother. Val was annoyed because a neighbour woman—a recently arrived immigrant—had called her 'Mrs. Sergeant Lewis'. "I didn't say anything to her, of course," Val had ranted in private, "but she made me feel like I was some sort of... equipment that the Force had issued to Robbie. Car, handcuffs, warrant card, and wife."

Her mum had replied placidly, "She's still learning our language, love, and I imagine she was applying the only rules of politeness that she knows."

If James can't distinguish between his governor Inspector Lewis being kind and his mate Robbie wanting to spend time with him, perhaps it's because friendship is an alien country to him, and he doesn't know the rules. "You're me best mate," Robbie repeats, "and I'm asking me best mate if he wants to go with me to a sodding art gallery."

James's smile is radiant. "I'd enjoy that very much, sir."

_He doesn't know the rules_. "Call me Robbie. Outside work, call me Robbie."

"Robbie," James repeats carefully, as if it's a foreign word, and he wants to get the pronunciation right.

"Much better. Now, I'm wondering how my mate James is, and I don't just mean the shoulder."

"Going out of my mind with boredom," James confesses. "Having you here to talk to helps, si—Robbie, but being stuck inside for so long is maddening."

"Can't stand being cooped up?" The words are out of Robbie's mouth before he thinks about their literal meaning.

James gives him one of his patented eye-roll smirks. "I'm not a rooster."

"Could have fooled me, the way you crow sometimes," Robbie snipes back. "Right. Getting back to your problem... I think I might have a solution, but I've got to phone someone in the morning. Can you hold out for another 24 hours?"

"I... yes, but..."

"Good." Robbie ignores the questions on James's face. He doesn't want to say anything more about his plan until he's sure that he can get it sorted. The first part will work, no doubt, but the second is less certain. "There's just one more thing we need to settle," he says.

"And that is?"

"Pizza or Chinese?" he asks, heading for the drawer where the takeaway menus are kept.

James's sputter of laughter follows him all the way into the kitchen.

_tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as he wakes in the morning, Robbie grabs his mobile. It's not too early to make this particular phone call. After the greetings and pleasantries, he asks his favour, mentally apologising for the necessary white lie that goes with it. The answer is what he expected. With a heartfelt 'thank you' and a few more pleasantries, he hangs up, gets dressed, and heads off to work in a much better mood than he's known for a week.

It's a hectic day. Lunch is a sodding egg mayo sandwich and a packet of ketchup-flavoured crisps at his desk, eating with one hand and typing with the other. He could draft another sergeant to do this for him, but it's a report that requires careful handling, and the only DS he'd trust to do it to his standards is currently moping about his flat.

That reminds him that he needs to make a second phone call. James answers after the first ring. "Hullo, sir."

"How are you doing?"

There's a pause. "Well enough. Bored. I'll survive."

"I'll be heading right over to yours after work. Wear something warm—we're going out to eat."

A longer pause. "Sir, I can't—"

"You can sit in the car while I fetch a takeaway, can't you? We'll eat in the car, then go for a drive. Do you good to get some fresh air."

"Yes, sir."

There's that taken care of. If only the sodding report was as easy to sort. Sighing, he turns back to the laptop.

That evening, he enters the flat to find James reading on the sofa. "Hullo, James."

"Hullo, Robbie." There's only the briefest pause before the second word. James sets his book aside and rises. "Is this acceptable?" He's wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt under a pale blue sweatshirt that says '_Universitas Cantabrigiensis'_. His usual trainers have been replaced by a pair of battered hiking boots. The grey cape from the charity shop is draped over the back of a chair.

"Should do. Let's be off—I'm starving."

"No lunch today?" James asks, as he throws the cape over his shoulders and fastens the buttons.

"Near enough," Robbie grumbles. "Sandwich and crisps from the canteen. Egg mayo."

"Ah..." James says sympathetically. He knows how much Robbie hates egg mayo.

In no time at all they're in the car and heading west along the Botley Road. James is silent until they pull into the car park of a small shopping centre. "You had a burning desire to try somewhere new?"

"It's on the way," Robbie replies, but he doesn't say where they're going, and James doesn't ask. He leaves the car running so James can have the heater on. Inside the chippy, he orders their usual: haddock and chips for himself (with mushy peas); plaice and chips for James, with coleslaw (heretic that he is).

Returning to the car, he hands the bags to James. "It's a twenty-minute drive to where we're going, and I'd just as soon eat while the food is hot." He settles himself behind the wheel and receives one of the bags back from James. "Ta. Sure you've got the right one? I warn you, I will not be a happy man, Hathaway, if you eat my haddock by mistake."

"Never fear, sir," James says with a smirk that belies the grave deference of his tone. "I wouldn't dream of it. I know my plaice."

Robbie raises his left hand and takes a mock swipe at his sergeant's head. "Enough of your cheek."

They chat while they eat. Robbie reports news and gossip from the station. James tells him some of the strange medieval beliefs about fish. One kind that supposedly loves music, and can be lured into nets by 'grete harmonye'. Another that swims to the depths during storms, because the touch of rainwater would make it blind. A female fish that pulls her babies out of her body to see if they're large enough to be born; if not, she tucks them back inside her.

"What, like taking scones out of the oven to see if they're done?" Robbie asks.

"Just so."

"Absolutely daft. Still, I suppose that in five or six hundred years, people will shake their heads over some of the nonsense we believed."

When they're finished eating, Robbie drives northwest along the Eynsham Road. They pass dark fields and hedges, punctuated by the occasional brightly-lit farmhouse.

"Nice evening for a drive in the country?" James says.

"Yeah, it is." As they approach Farmoor, Robbie tries to focus on the lights of the village to his left, and not the dark, looming presence of Wytham Woods to his right. _It was a long time ago_, he reminds himself, but a shiver goes up his spine. A man doesn't easily forget a place where he was nearly murdered, where he was forced at gunpoint to dig what would have been his own grave. If Morse hadn't come...

"You all right?"

Damn! Trust James to notice every little detail at the most inconvenient times. Robbie bites back an excuse about a draught from his window. He promised not to lie to James. "Fine," he says, because he is, really. It comes out more brusquely than he intended. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees James arching his brows in silent challenge. "An old memory. Nothing to fret over."

James gives him a reluctant nod. He won't push. Good.

Soon enough they're crossing the Thames on the Swinford Bridge, then passing through Eynsham. When they turn on to the A40, James says dryly, "I'm sure that Cardiff is lovely in February, but I would have appreciated an opportunity to pack a bag."

"We're nearly there," Robbie assures him, and James smirks.

The smirk becomes a frown when they leave the A40 and turn onto a narrow lane. "Erm... sir?"

"No worries. Trust me." He slows the Vauxhall to a crawl as they enter the farmyard. "We're just passing through. I know the owner." As if on cue, a stocky figure in a heavy coat and battered tweed cap steps out of a small shed, carrying a pail. He raises his free hand in greeting. Robbie waves back, but keeps on going. "Jem Merryweather. Met him years ago during a case. His daughter, Ellen, was a suspect."

"And that somehow endeared you to him?"

Robbie grins, remembering. "He called me every name in the book, and then some. Jem served in the Royal Marines when he was young, and he has what you might call an extensive vocabulary. Changed his tune when we caught the real killer. I rang him up earlier, said I'd be coming over after dinner to go for a walk in the wood."

"In the wood," James echoes. "In winter. In the dark."

"I thought a bit of a stroll would sweeten your mood. Nothing wrong with your legs, after all. Trouble is, it's not easy finding a place with guaranteed privacy." He'd thought of the canal towpath, but it was too risky. Even on a winter night they might find people on the towpath. "The wood has well-cleared walking trails, and it's closed to the general public after dusk," he continues. "We're wearing warm coats, I've got a pocket torch, and the moon will be up soon."

"All right," James says slowly, "but just how did you explain your sudden zeal for nocturnal exercise to Mr. Merryweather?"

Robbie's grin widens. "You're a twitcher."

"What?"

"It's a term for a bird-watcher who's—"

"I know what the word means."

"I told him that my mate James is a twitcher, and is very keen to spot a certain rare bird."

"In the middle of the night?"

"It's only half seven. And you're looking for an owl."

James blinks, looking rather like an owl himself. "Of course I am," he says obediently. "A lifelong goal of mine."

About 100 metres beyond the farmhouse, the lane opens into a wide gravelled circle. The A painted wooden sign says 'Welcome to Haydon Wood' above the oak-leaves logo of the Woodland Trust.

Torches in hand, they stride down the path and into the wood. It looks very different to the last time Robbie saw it. He'd followed a weeping Ellen Merryweather down this very path. On a May morning, it had been as lovely as fairyland, the ground carpeted with bluebells, and dappled sunlight shining through the green-gold canopy of leaves.

It's got a different, more subtle loveliness now. The tangled branches of the tall oaks sketch a graceful black filigree against the charcoal-grey sky. James was right: there are very few places in Britain where it gets completely dark, even on a moonless night.

This night isn't moonless. As they walk deeper into the wood, the full moon rises, looking huge and luminous as it clears the treetops. "Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon," James murmurs.

Robbie doesn't ask where the quotation is from. Sounds like Shakespeare. "Bomber's moon," he says. "That's what me dad always called it. He was only a lad during the war, but old enough not to be evacuated with the little kiddies. No fancy instruments in planes back then, so the crews had to target by sight. Easier to do by moonlight, in a night raid. Course, that helped the Germans, too. Tyneside was bombed half a dozen times that I know of."

"This would be a great night for flying," James says, with a faraway look that says he's not talking about the RAF or the Luftwaffe. "Not safe at all, but the view would be glorious."

Robbie nods. He doesn't want to interrupt—and he's not entirely sure that James is talking to him. They continue down the path at a comfortable pace. Between the exercise and his heavy coat, he feels quite warm.

In less than ten minutes, they reach a clearing, a rough oval about 30 yards at its widest point. The moon shines down brightly enough that Robbie doesn't need his torch to read the sign posted on the far side of the clearing. 'Skepper's Glade'. "Huh. Funny name, that."

"A skepper is someone who makes skeps," James says promptly. "Straw or wicker baskets used as beehives." Robbie half-expects him to go off on one of his rambling explanations, perhaps covering the history of basket making and the medicinal uses of honey, but he merely says, "Give me a moment?" and then crosses the glade, removes his cape, and drapes it neatly over the wooden signpost.

Robbie almost calls out to ask what the hell James thinks he is doing, but something inside him doesn't want to break the uncanny quiet. It's mild for February—maybe 6 or 7 degrees—and James is wearing several layers. He won't freeze in the next few minutes.

James returns to the centre of the glade. He stands at attention, and turns his face up to the silver moon, closing his eyes against her brightness. Slowly, carefully, like a ritual, he unfolds his wings, extending them to their full length. He holds that position for ten, fifteen, twenty long seconds. The moonlight frosts his pale gold wings with silver. Robbie can see individual feather tips fluttering in the slight breeze.

He feels as though he's looking at one of those old novelty postcards that flicker back and forth between two different images. One moment, he's looking at an unearthly vision, so magnificent that a poet might find himself tongue-tied trying to describe it; the next, he's looking at his bagman, casual and ordinary in boots and faded jeans and a Cambridge sweatshirt.

James raises his wings to their full, impressive height, as if trying to touch the moon. Again, he stays in position for twenty seconds. He lowers them, sweeps them to the back, then repeats the entire pattern ten times. It's like a dance or a tai chi routine. Robbie almost expects him to finish with a bow or some dramatic pose, like one of those Olympic figure skaters. Instead, James merely folds his wings and puts his cape back on.

Robbie struggles with curiosity, then surrenders. "What was that?"

"What was wha—oh, _that_. Physiotherapy. My stretching exercises. I hadn't done the evening session yet."

"Erm, right. More room here than in your flat, I suppose."

"True. And it's been a while since..." James's voice trails away, but Robbie suspects he can finish the sentence. _Since he spread his wings outdoors and felt the wind._

"We'll come back," Robbie says quietly. "Haven't seen an owl yet, have we?" James nods. He's very quiet on the walk back to the car. Robbie thinks it's the good sort of quiet. _Being out here helped him, but what he really needs is to fly again._

* * *

The next night the weather keeps them indoors. It's pissing down icy rain, and Robbie doesn't plan to walk any further than the distance from his car to the door of James's flat. He walks inside, where the blessedly warm air is scented with garlic and spices. James greets him with a smile. "I remembered I had some mince in the freezer, so I made chilli." He spreads his hands in apology. "No Mexican beer, I'm afraid."

"Give over, man. A bottle of Bridge will do well enough." Robbie peels off his wet coat. "Or two."

"Hard day, was it?"

"Not too bad," Robbie concedes. "Had a change of pace from the damned paperwork. Innocent called me in to consult on Ward's latest case."

"Oh?"

"You remember the Rockwell murder last year?" He pauses just long enough for James to nod, because he knows his sergeant remembers every case they've worked, especially the unsolved ones. "Ward caught a case yesterday Not much similarity between the victims, except for the manner of death." Both had been garrotted with a length of chain. Amy Rockwell was a dentist in her fifties; Ian Scanlon, a thirty-something mechanic for a car hire firm. "They lived maybe a mile apart, but there's no evidence that either of them knew the other. Nothing in common, so far as we can tell. Unless the killer picked them out because they shopped at the same supermarket." He spreads his hands. "Which is as likely a theory as any, at this stage."

"But you think it's the same killer?"

Robbie rubs the back of his neck. "Strangulation is common enough, but using a chain? Not the exact same chain in both cases, Laura says, but a similar weight. My gut says they're related." Just at that moment his stomach lets out a loud rumble.

James's lips twitch. "I believe your gut has another message for you, sir."

"Smartarse." Robbie glares at him. "Let's eat. I'll show you the file afterwards."

He does, and they spend most of the rest of the evening talking about it. James confesses that his gut agrees with Robbie's: there is some connection between the two victims.

As he's gathering up the papers, Robbie notices the guitar leaning against the bookcase. "Have you been playing?"

James pulls a face. "Trying to. After a few minutes, my right hand gets tired, and I have trouble with the finger-picking."

The sort of music James plays requires a lot of fancy fingering, Robbie knows. He doesn't just strum a rhythm like old-style folk singers. The thought raises a question in his mind. "Do you sing?"

"Not voluntarily," James replies. "Not when sober, at any rate. Why?"

He shrugs. "Just wondering. You're a musician."

"Instrumental only."

"So you're not a warbler?" Robbie asks.

James stares at him. For a split-second, Robbie is afraid that he's offended his partner, but it's surprise that he sees on the younger man's face, followed by a lopsided smile. Has anyone ever teased him about his wings? Not in the last twenty years or more, Robbie is willing to bet.

"Not a nightingale," James admits, "but not a crow either."

Robbie thinks he'll have to test that some day. Get James drunk enough and see what happens. He can't imagine going to one of those karaoke bars. A pub with a piano? He tucks the idea into the back of his mind.

* * *

The rain ends the next day, but temperatures drop below zero, turning puddles to ice. No 'bird-watching' tonight. Robbie isn't fussed. "We can watch the football match. Arsenal's playing Milan."

"A fact of which I was happily unaware until this moment."

"It's going to be a brilliant match. Walcott's been on fire lately."

"That name ne'er utter'd without tears in Milan." James correctly interprets Robbie's frown. "Never mind. Forget I said anything." He picks up the remote for the telly and offers it to Robbie with the solemn formality of a waiter offering champagne on a silver tray. "Do with it as you will." He picks up a book from the coffee table, leans back contentedly, and reads.

At half time, Robbie visits the loo, then the kitchen. "Making meself a cuppa," he calls out. "Want one?"

Almost immediately, James is at his side.

"I can do it, soft lad. Not much work getting another mug from the cupboard." He demonstrates by reaching for James's favourite mug, a large red and white one decorated with the Cambridge coat of arms.

"Ah, but you don't know what sort of tea I want. I'm in the mood for... Lapsang Souchong," James announces, and takes a black and gold tin from the back of the cupboard, then unearths a small wire mesh ball from a drawer.

Robbie snorts. "Builder's tea suits me just fine." He grabs a tea bag from the box of Tetley that James keeps on hand as a concession to his governor.

Back in the living room, the halftime commentators are still delivering their analysis of the match. Robbie ignores them. He doesn't care what the talking heads have to say about the match. Discussing it with a mate is a different matter, but James has never shown any interest in football—or any other sort of sport. "What did you play at that posh school of yours? Cricket? Polo?"

"Polo was not on offer," James replies with a grimace. "Besides, I'm only fond of horses at a distance." Belatedly, Robbie remembers the farm at Crevecoeur. If James wasn't horse-mad, as Briony Grahame was, horses would only have meant a lot of hard, dirty work for him. "I wasn't very good at cricket. Didn't have the eye for it. I was a rower."

That's right. Their first case together, James had been very knowledgeable about the oars in Danny Griffin's boat. At the time, he thought it was just a useful bit of trivia. "You enjoyed it?"

"Very much. It was almost like—it was exhilarating."

"How did you manage?' He doesn't have to explain what he means.

"Easier than you might think. The Headmaster knew about me. He put it about that I had mild scoliosis and needed to wear a corrective back brace. The rowing coach let me wear a school sweatshirt instead of the team uniform t-shirt."

"Did you row at Cambridge, too?"

James has been chatting freely, so it comes as a surprise when he suddenly retreats into himself. "No. It wasn't really feasible. My studies kept me busy."

Even a genius like James would need to do a lot of work to achieve a starred First at Cambridge, but he seems to have made time for other things that mattered to him. Music, for example. Why not rowing? Mentally he replays what James said about his rowing at school: "_The rowing coach let me wear a school sweatshirt..."_

Maybe they'd been less accommodating at Cambridge. He's seen Oxford rowers on the river often enough. They seem to wear snug-fitting spandex t-shirts, short-sleeved or even sleeveless. If James had used the back brace excuse, they might want their own doctor to look him over. And if he'd got onto the crew for the annual Boat Race... that gets a lot of publicity. There are newspaper articles and television interviews. Exactly the sort of public attention that James would dread.

It's just one more thing that James has been forced to give up in order to protect his bloody secret. To protect himself.

* * *

Laura visits his office the next day and sets a folder on his desk. "Hullo, Robbie. I was in the neighbourhood, so here's the Scanlon report."

"Thanks, Laura." He gives her a rueful smile. "Seem to be saying that a lot lately."

Her smile is mischievous. "Better 'thanks' than 'sorry'... and you're quite welcome. How's James doing?"

He glances around. "Feeling much cheerier. We... talked."

"Something you two should do more often," she chides. "I'm off. Give my love to the dishy sergeant, won't you?"

Mid-afternoon, and he's conferring with Ward when his mobile rings. The display says 'Hathaway'. He's surprised. James normally sends him texts, so as not to interrupt his work day. He gestures an apology at Ward and takes the call.

"Sir, I had a thought about those two cases... if you have a moment?"

"Sure, go ahead. We're just spinning our wheels here."

"I see from PC Leahy's report that Scanlon owned a dog. Rockwell had a dog, too."

"One in three British households has a dog."

"Yes, sir, but both of the victims were living alone in flats without gardens. They might have gone to the same park to let the dogs exercise, and met the killer there. Or employed a dog-walker. Or something."

"Or something," Robbie echoes. It's hardly a solid lead, but it's a new idea, and those have been very scarce. Worth looking into. "Anything else?"

"I was thinking about where our murderer—if there is just one—might get metal chains of varying weights and sizes."

"Any DIY shop, for starters. You can get 'em cut to order."

"Very true, sir, except that chain is an awkward material for a garrotte. Hard to hold onto."

Oh, how he's missed this give and take lately, sparking ideas against each other. "You could attach handles. Like that bloke in Brighton who fancied himself a ninja, and nearly decapitated the milkman with piano wire. He used the handles from his daughter's skipping rope."

"Yeah, but I was thinking of a chain that's already designed to go round a throat. A choke chain."

"A dog collar? Interesting. I'll ask Dr Hobson if that would fit the forensic evidence. Thanks." He ends the call.

Ward looks up from the interview transcripts he's been re-reading. "Got something?"

"Hathaway suggested a possibility." Robbie summarises what his sergeant said.

"Worth a looksee," Ward concedes. "I'll have Llewellyn and Singh do the rounds of the parks."

"I'll get some of mine onto vets and dog-walkers." Robbie rises, feeling much more energetic than he was just a few minutes before. It'll mean a lot of phone calls and slogging through old records, but 90% of police work is like that. They've got a new direction, and for now, that's enough.

By the end of the day his back is aching and his brain is fuzzy. "Sorry, lad, but I don't think I'm up for a tramp through the woods."

"No worries. The woods have been there for a few centuries; I expect they'll still be there a few days hence. I will possess my soul in patience."

The next day, Robbie rings James in the late afternoon. "I've got good news and bad news."

"Give me the bad news first," James says.

"You're on your own tonight. I won't be out of here before ten at the earliest."

"The cupboard isn't exactly bare, sir. I won't starve, and I promise not to pine away in your absence. What's keeping you so busy?"

"That's the good news. We got him," Robbie says with satisfaction. "You were on the right track with the dog business. Rockwell and Scanlon used the same pet grooming shop. One of the assistants—look, I've got to go. Ward is ready to get the interview started. Just wanted to let you know not to expect me. Good work, Sergeant."

The following evening Robbie fills in details of the case as they drive to Haydon Wood. "Matt Coupland, age 29. Assistant groomer at Canine Elegance Doggy Day Spa." Out of the corner of his eye he sees James wince.

"You're joking. Please tell me it's not called that."

"Sorry, but it is. Painted in gold in fancy foot-high letters on their front window."

James shudders.

"Turns out that Coupland's got a long history of angry confrontations with people he suspected of mistreating dogs," Robbie continues. "Broke the nose of a man who left his Cocker Spaniel tied in an alley for ten minutes on a July afternoon while he went into Panda Palace to get a takeaway." Both of the murder victims had adopted their dogs from animal rescue shelters. "Coupland claims he saw scars on the dogs."

"Maybe he did," James offers. "Could be that the dogs had been abused by their original owners."

"Could be. A reasonable person would have reported them to the RSPCA, made an anonymous call if he was afraid of getting into trouble at work." Coupland had not been a reasonable person. He'd stalked his victims, knocked them out, and throttled them to death with a choke collar. "It's all over but the paperwork, which Ward's bagman is taking care of, you'll be pleased to know. Oh, and Ward sends his compliments. Says you're an exemplary detective, and a real credit to your old governor."

"He never said that." DI Ward is well-known throughout the force for being a man of few words—usually blunt ones.

"It's what he meant." Ward's actual remark was, "_Not a complete idiot. I think you'll be able to make something of that one."_

As if by silent consent, they stop talking about the case as they pull into the drive of the Merryweather farm. There's no one in sight. As before, the small parking area for Haydon Wood is deserted. "Got your torch?" The moon is waning, and it's a cloudy night.

In response, James clicks his on. They walk side by side into the wood, the lights of their torches sweeping along the path a few metres ahead of them. Now and then the beams cross, merging to form a single pool of brightness. When they reach Skepper's Glade, Robbie pauses. "You want to do your physio?"

"On the way back?" James suggests. "I'd like to do some more walking first."

They choose a path on the far side of the glade, heading northwards. Faint traffic sounds from the motorway fade to nothing as they head deeper into the wood. It's quiet, but not silent. Dry leaves, twigs, and patches of gravel crunch under their feet, and the wind whispers in the upper branches. Rustling sounds announce the presence of unseen small animals. _It's peaceful here_, Robbie thinks. If it were only a bit warmer...

A harsh scream slashes through the night. "Jesus!" Robbie nearly drops his torch. "What the hell was that?"

He can't see the smirk on James's face, but he can hear it in his voice. "That was a male barn owl. Tyto alba."

"You can tell just by hearing it?"

"The territorial call of the male is rather distinctive. No other British owl sounds anything like it."

"You know a lot about birds. That by way of personal research?" Even as he asks the question, he knows the answer.

James hesitates, then jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "These didn't come with an instruction manual. Flying was instinctual, though just like walking, it took time to get the hang of it. Everything else I had to learn as best I could. As I imagine you discovered, it's very difficult to find information that isn't..."

"Completely daft?" Robbie suggests.

"That's more polite than what I was thinking, but the point is the same." He stops, turns, and begins walking back towards the glade. "Do you remember last week when you asked if I could take a shower?"

"Yeah. You mistook my meaning." He'd meant: could James shower despite his wound? James had thought he was asking if he could get his wings wet.

"And was rather rude about it. I am sorry." James inhales deeply. "The truth is that the other wouldn't have been an unreasonable question. And when I was young, I couldn't have answered it. As a child, I only ever took baths, and kept my wings clear of the water. I knew nothing dreadful would happen if they got wet—I'd been caught in the rain more than once—but my mother said it was a bad idea, and might cause problems in the long run." He walks faster, long legs eating up the path. "At school there were only showers to be had. I was allowed to use a private one near the infirmary because of my 'scoliosis'. It wasn't very large. Maybe if I'd been a contortionist, I could have kept my wings dry. After my first week at school, I found two feathers on the floor of the bathroom. I was convinced that showering had given me... incurable feather rot."

"Is there such a thing?" He knows nothing about the ailments of birds. Lyn's pet budgie had lived a healthy, uneventful life until the day it was found cold and stiff at the bottom of the cage and was given a state funeral, buried in a biscuit tin in the back garden.

"No, but I didn't know that. I was a 13-year-old boy and I panicked."

Robbie remembers being that age and having incomprehensible things happening to his body. Fortunately, he'd had mates he could ask the questions he'd never have dared to ask his parents. James had had no one. "What did you do?"

"Went to the school chapel to pray. I think I had some notion of appealing to St Michael."

_St Michael?_ He's supposed to be the patron saint of policemen. Back in Newcastle, Robbie knew some coppers who wore St Michael medallions tucked under their uniforms. But at 13, James had no thought of becoming a policeman, so why—? _Oh. Right. St Michael the Archangel. Wings._ "What happened?"

"I never actually got there. In the corridor outside the chapel was a portrait of one of the school's founders, in full 17th century regalia with a ruffle at his throat and a wig that came down to here." James indicates a point some eight inches below his shoulder. "And he was holding a book inscribed _Gnothi seauton._"

"Latin?"

"Greek. 'Know thyself'. So I headed for the library."

"Course you did."

"And after I'd looked at the ornithology books in the school library and the bird care books in the village bookshop, I concluded that I didn't have to worry about showers one way or the other."

"But the feathers that fell out?"

Some of the clouds have parted, and there's enough moonlight to see James's rueful look. "Stress moulting. Perfectly normal, under the circumstances. Change of locale and so forth." He shakes his head. "Sorry, don't know why I'm boring you with this old stuff."

_Because you've never had someone you dared talk to before._ "When you start boring me, Sergeant, you'll know it."

They reach the glade a moment later. As on their previous visit, James removes his cape to do his stretching exercises. His movements are smoother this time, and he adds a bit of a spin at the end.

"You're looking good," Robbie comments. "Which reminds me. It's coming up on two weeks. You'll need a doctor's note to come back to work."

"Already sorted. Sir Andrew sent me the name of a doctor in Oxford who he highly recommends."

"Sounds good. A specialist?"

"Well... not my sort of specialist, but an orthopaedist, which is good enough for a post-operative check-up."

"And you trust him?"

"Sir Andrew does. Says Dr Inglethorpe is utterly discreet." James twitches his wings in a way that betrays mild tension. "I've got an after-hours appointment at his surgery on Wednesday."

"I'll drive you," Robbie says in a tone that allows no contradiction. "You'll bring your binder along, and if the doctor give you the go-ahead to wear it, we'll celebrate with a dinner out. A proper sit-down—no takeaway."

* * *

By Thursday morning, Pad Thai and Ginger Onion Chicken at Bangkok House are only pleasant memories. Robbie sits at his desk, washing down a bite of stale croissant with a mouthful of lukewarm coffee. It's a nasty, cold, drizzly day outside; two constables have called in sick with the flu, and Innocent is in a proper strop about some newspaper column criticising police spending. Nevertheless, when he glances across the office, he can't help but smile. James Hathaway is at his desk, and all is right with Robbie Lewis's world.

He studies his sergeant, back hunched over his computer, fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard. Less than a month ago, if anyone had told him what lay beneath the smooth contours of that dark grey suit and lavender shirt, he would have laughed until his belly ached—or called for the men in white coats.

He's not the only one who is pleased. Seems like half the force has been over to greet Hathaway. Even the Chief Super takes a short break from her strop to say "Welcome back, Sergeant". He finally sends James down to Records to get some files on one of their older cases, and emphasises that it's no rush. Let people accost James in the corridors instead of barging into their office every two minutes.

Robbie glances down at his coffee, which has passed 'tepid' and is now approaching 'cold'. He'll go and see if the canteen has brewed a new pot yet. He strides down the hallway, and is about to round a corner, when he hears familiar voices.

"I see his lordship's finally back from holiday."

"Must be nice, skiving off work for two weeks."

Robbie steps forward, and sees the faces he expected. "Hooper. Ripley."

"Morning, sir."

"G'morning, Inspector."

"That wouldn't be Detective Sergeant Hathaway you two were chattering about, would it?"

"No, sir," they reply in unison.

"I didn't think so," Robbie says mildly, "since Sergeant Hathaway is back from medical leaveafter being shot in the line of duty. Either of you gentlemen ever been shot?" He knows the answer of, course, but he waits for the head shakes. "I have—more than once, as it happens—and I can tell you that it's not a pleasant experience. Furthermore, Sergeant Hathaway helped solve two murder cases while he was on medical leave. Unless either of you two jokers can make the same claim, I suggest you learn to keep your gobs shut. Is that clear?"

"Yessir," Hooper says. Ripley nods, too cowed to speak.

"Then be off with you," Robbie growls. As they scuttle away, he turns on his heel and nearly walks into James. It's the absence of expression that tells him that the other man overheard everything.

"Sir, I've got the financial records on Lyford senior." James offers a small bundle of A4 paper.

"Good. Anything I ought to know?"

"Nothing unusual at first glance. I was about to go over them more carefully."

Robbie shakes his head. "Later. You're with me. Time to talk to the son's girlfriend."

James is quiet in the car, but there's something in the set of his shoulders that tells Robbie he's working up his courage to say something.

_Bugger._ If they're going to deal with this now, Robbie wants to take the lead. "I didn't do it for you."

James cocks his head, listening.

"When I was a very young and very green PC, and still in uniform, it was made clear that insulting a superior officer could be a firing offense, depending on who said what to who. My supervising sergeant—this was up in Newcastle—told us, 'If you're going to slag me off, lads, you either do it off-duty and in private to your mates, or you do it to my face and take the consequences.' That's a lesson some coppers never learn. I've got some leeway. I can pretend not to hear some things, but if it's shoved right in front of me, I've got to act or discipline goes to hell."

"Yes, sir." James says.

"You'd do it to my face." Robbie says.

"Sir, I wouldn't—never—"

"Wouldn't do what? Slag me off? Likely not, but if you did, you'd have the balls to tell me direct, not whisper in the corners."

James ponders this for a long moment. "Thank you?"

* * *

Trevor Lyford's girlfriend Andrea ("call me Andi") Brown is a lecturer in English at New College, specialising in Victorian literature. She's polite, even cooperative, and she seems genuinely unhappy about the murder of her boyfriend's father, but Robbie's gut tells him something isn't quite right. "I wish she'd let us go upstairs," he grumbles to James as they leave. "I don't suppose you could peek in her bedroom window and see if there's any sign of the stolen painting?"

James glances up at the second-floor window, then back at his governor. "Sir, I'm not a hummingbird. I can't hover. Also, I believe that would constitute an illegal search."

"We'll have to do it the old-fashioned way, then."

"Just so, sir."

The old-fashioned way takes a few cubic metres of paperwork, but eventually they get a warrant to search Ms Brown's house. On the wall of her bedroom is a small oil painting. It's the portrait of Charles Dickens by Augustus Egg which was presumed stolen by the as-yet-unidentified burglar who murdered her boyfriend's father.

They've played good cop/bad cop many times before, assigning the roles as seems best. It's just a matter of drawing on different parts of your personality. Robbie can be the easy-going, friendly bloke next door; Hathaway can be cold, relentless, acid-tongued. Today, he's the hard-arsed, cynical old copper, and James is every inch the urbane Oxbridge graduate, offering sympathetic smiles and quotations from Tennyson.

Andi Brown doesn't hold out for very long. Forty minutes after they begin questioning she confesses. In a quavering voice she names the undergraduate she'd blackmailed into stealing the Dickens portrait. She didn't think anyone would get hurt. Lyford Senior wasn't supposed to be home that night. It's not her fault that her accomplice panicked when the old man came home early. Besides, he shouldn't have refused to sell the painting to her in the first place. He couldn't appreciate it properly. He was a building contractor—scarcely more than a jumped-up bricklayer.

As the uniforms lead her away, Robbie and James exchange satisfied nods. The rest will be in the hands of CPS, other than the paperwork, which can bloody well wait until the morning.

"Dickens was no toff," Robbie comments. "I thought he liked bricklayers and other honest working men."

"That he did, sir."

"And how did he feel about beer?"

"He was generally in favour of it."

"Sensible man. How do you feel about hoisting a pint in his honour at the Trout?"

* * *

They sit and talk over a couple of well-deserved pints, then go their separate ways. The unusual closeness of the past two weeks can't continue. Best mates, yeah, but even an old married couple needs time apart. He remembers going with Val to the civil wedding ceremony of one of her school friends. The couple wrote their own vows (which Val thought was romantic and Robbie thought was daft) and read lots of poetry. Most of it made no sense to him, but there was one line he liked: _let there be spaces in your togetherness_. The trick is to figure out how much space they need.

There are others things to be worked out. Being best mates with your bagman is a tricky balancing act. Slowly, over the weeks that follow, they fumble their way to space and balance.

'Fumble' is the right word. Some things come easier than others. James gets used to switching back and forth between 'Sir' and 'Robbie', smoothly as an experienced driver shifting gears. Then the day comes that James makes a rare, stupid mistake on the job, and Robbie has to pull him aside and give him a bollocking. He takes it well enough, apologises, and seems to regret his error, but at day's end when Robbie says, "A pint?", James shakes his head.

"No thank you, sir," he says with cool courtesy, and makes a beeline for his own car.

The next day, things are still a bit stiff between them. Laura Hobson comes into the office, smiling. "Here I am, like Father Christmas, with gifts for all." She lays one file folder on Robbie's desk and hands the other to James.

"Ta, Laura."

"Surely April is rather late for Father Christmas, Dr Hobson?" James replies, just a hint of sharpness in his voice.

She arches her brows at James. "Who's ruffled your feathers, Sergeant?" There's a second of silence... two... three, and Laura's face goes pink. "Oh! Oh, I am so sorry, James." James's face is mostly blank, but there's a muscle twitching in his jaw. "I'm sorry," Laura repeats. "I just wasn't thinking."

"I know," James gasps. The twitch intensifies, and he lets out a half-choked snort. "That's why—oh!" His self-control slips completely. His shoulders shake. He buries his face in his hands, but it doesn't do much to muffle the spurts of laughter.

Robbie has been holding back, but the sound of his usually poised bagman chortling like a schoolboy is too much. "Don't get yourself into a flap, Hathaway," he sputters, and gives up the fight, letting out a deep belly laugh.

Laura throws up her hands. "The two of you are a well-matched set of lunatics. I'm off to the morgue, where the men are quiet, and a woman can hear herself think. Phone me if you have any questions."

* * *

May brings warm breezes, an increase in street crime, and Lyn's birthday. Her partner Tim has kindly given him some useful suggestions about gifts, but what does an old fart like him know about digital thingummies? James comes to the rescue with a promise of online research and a printout of the top recommended models.

They're having dinner at James's flat tonight. More often than not they go to Robbie's, but the lad wants to cook, and he's got all the proper equipment and tools.

"Did you get me that list? I need to place the order soon if it's to get to Lyn on time."

James is studying the interior of the fridge with the same careful attention he gives to evidence at a crime scene. "The information is on my desk," he calls back in a distracted tone.

The printout from the website is on top of a stack of paper. As Robbie picks it up, his eye falls on the paper that was beneath it. It's a sheet of heavy, cream-coloured stationary embossed with the initials AEM, dated 17 February. Right. The letter from Sir Andrew that he sent with the new binder. Robbie wouldn't snoop into James's private affairs uninvited, but he can't help seeing what's right in front of his nose. A few words jump out at him.

'_...consider summer holiday... island. Cottage has two bedrooms... bring a friend, or if you wish to meet others..."_

The island. Sir Andrew mentioned it the morning that James was released from hospital. Somewhere in the Hebrides. Private and isolated, and available as a holiday retreat for "the right sort of people". James's sort of people. Robbie can imagine, oh so clearly, James soaring over cliffs and shingle and sea in mock pursuit of another young man—dark hair and dark wings like a hawk—the two of them laughing with shared delight. _It's what he needs... what he deserves._ And Robbie is going to see that he gets it. He's going to do what's right for his best mate, even if it means losing him.

Oh, James won't suddenly turn a cold shoulder to his old governor. He's not that petty or cruel. Realistically, though, what does Robbie have to offer? He's an ordinary man. A common man, in every sense of the word. He can't share the sky with James, can't join him in a game of tag fifty metres above the crashing surf. How can Chinese takeaway in front of the telly compete?

He waits until after dinner. "Y'know, Innocent has been encouraging everyone to get their holiday leaves sorted in advance. Makes it easier for scheduling. Remember when Sir Andrew was talking to you about that island? I was wondering if you'd given any thought to that. Might be good for you. He said it was private, and a lovely spot for flying. You haven't said much about it, but I know you've missed flying."

James's face brightens. "Funny you should bring that up today. I'd been thinking about it, too. I was wondering about mid-July—if it's convenient for you, sir?"

July? Why not? Maybe he'll take a few days leave himself, visit Lyn in Manchester. Or not. Doesn't really matter. "Yeah, July is convenient. Fill out the form, and I'll sign off on it." He doesn't have to feign a smile. He's happy for James, he truly is. And if his old heart aches just a little over the changes to come, that's just selfishness, and can be suppressed. _Will_ be suppressed, for his friend's sake.

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

The next few weeks go by in a blur. A pleasant blur, Robbie has to admit. They return to Haydon Wood several times. On one occasion they have dinner with Jem Merryweather, who is delighted to see Robbie again. His daughter Ellen joins them. She's a grown woman now, and proudly introduces her husband and young son.

To Robbie's delight and secret amusement, James enters fully into the conversation, talking about cattle feed and crop rotation with the same ease that he discusses Shakespeare and theology. I keep forgetting that he was raised on a farm. 'One o' the kids off the estate.'

On another night, they go out for Thai with Laura Hobson. James insists on paying.

Laura swallows a bite of green papaya salad and smiles at James. "This is lovely, but what's the occasion?"

He flushes. "Just a thank-you. For your help when I was in hospital."

"All I did was clean blood off a bullet. You can best thank me by making sure I never have to do it again." She directs a mock scowl at Robbie. "And you see to it that he stays out of trouble."

Robbie returns the scowl with interest. "What do you think I am, a sodding miracle worker?"

Hathaway laughs. It's a good sound, and it's one that Robbie is determined to hear more often.

As spring progresses, James does laugh more often. He'll never be an extrovert, but he's friendlier and more approachable at the office. And there's something different about his face, something that makes him look younger.

He's happy, Robbie realises. This is what happiness looks like on James Hathaway. Robbie savours it like a unexpected and undeserved gift. Once, while escorting Innocent to a fancy do for high muckety-mucks, he was served a glass of 40-year-old Glenfiddich. It was probably meant for some favoured philanthropist or University official, but a twist of fate (in the form of a confused waiter) handed it to a plain, ordinary copper. James's friendship is like that: it's rare and far more than he deserves, but he'll savour it while he can.

* * *

It's a rainy Friday in early June. They both have after-work errands, so Robbie brings home a Chinese takeaway. Twenty minutes later, James appears at his door, dripping wet, and with a face stormier than the skies over Oxford.

""Come in man, and get out of those wet things," Robbie urges. "I'll pop the wonton soup in the microwave—or would you rather a drink first?"

James doesn't answer. He stands there, just inside the closed door, and his expression makes Robbie raise his brows. "James?"

"When were you going to tell me?" The words are as sudden and hot as lightning.

"Tell you what?" Robbie is bewildered.

"About your holiday plans."

"What holiday plans?"

"Exactly." The cold smile is one that Robbie's seen before—in the interview room, when a suspect has made a fatal mistake with an answer.

Time to get this under control. "James, you want to mind your tone of voice. Take off your coat, sit down, and talk to me like a sensible person about whatever's got you so riled up."

James hesitates only a moment, then responds to the voice of authority. He strips off his mackintosh and seats himself on the far end of the sofa. "You'd already left the office when Innocent came in. She wanted something from the Smithson file. As I was retrieving it, she made some small talk about my upcoming holiday. Said she hoped I'd have a good time, but my governor was likely to be a grumpy old sod until I returned. And then I discovered that you hadn't requested leave for yourself." His voice is quieter than before, but no warmer. "So, I repeat: when were you planning to tell me?"

Every now and then, Robbie has a nightmare about being in court. He's called up to testify, and only after being sworn in does he discover that it's the wrong trial. The accused is someone he's never seen before, and he knows nothing about the case, but the CPS barrister and the judge keep bombarding him with questions. This bizarre interrogation makes him wonder if he's trapped in a similar nightmare. He grasps at the scraps of information he's been given, and tries to piece them together. "You thought I was going on holiday with you? To the island?"

"Yes, to the bloody island! Is that a surprise? You're the one who nagged me about it."

"Y'know, you didn't actually invite me," Robbie says carefully.

"Did you want an engraved invitation? I know I have a reputation for being a loner, but did you honestly expect that I'd choose to spend two weeks on a deserted Scottish island by myself?"

"You didn't say anything and I didn't think you'd want me along," Robbie replies.

"Who then, if not my so-called best mate?"

"I thought..." Robbie sighs. "Look, I saw that letter from Sir Andrew. Didn't mean to, but it was there, just under the information you printed out about Lyn's gift. He said you could meet others... like you, and I thought that's what you intended."

"Is that your way of saying I ought to stick with my own kind?"

"No! Yes... I don't know. I enjoy spending time together outside work, and for my own sake, I don't want that to change. But for you... you deserve things I can't give you. Like someone to fly with." He lifts his head and meets James's gaze, willing him to believe his words. "You deserve to take joy in who you are, and that's... I can't—I'm just an ordinary man, James."

"You know, I would have given almost anything to have a friend to fly with," James says conversationally, and Robbie feels his heart sink. "When I was five or six years old, that is. I daydreamed of chasing him across the Great Lawn and over the apple orchard, and flying circles around the Folly until we got too dizzy to continue. I'm not a little boy any longer. I'm a grown man, and I don't want a playmate. What I need is a friend. Someone who understands me." He gives a meaningful glance over his shoulder. "All of me. Someone who's willing to put up with my quirks and moods and smartarse attitudes. I thought I had that." He takes a deep breath. "Was I wrong?"

"No, you're not wrong," Robbie says slowly.

"What I don't need in a friend is someone who'll go behind my back to do what he thinks is best for me." James ducks his head slightly. "It's your right to do that at work as my governor, sir... but not as my friend."

"Fair enough," Robbie concedes, "only I didn't do anything behind your back. I made an assumption, which was stupid of me, but you made an assumption, too. I need to trust that my friend will tell me what he needs."

James's shoulder slump, and his head droops. A long, slow exhale seems to take some of his tension with it. "Sorry for being such an arse. Old habits die hard." Robbie nods acknowledgement and James continues, "Erm... so, will you join me on holiday?"

"I'd like that. You're sure it's okay?"

"Sir Andrew said I could bring a friend. That was in the letter, too."

"But he's not the landowner, is he?"

"No. The island actually belongs to his cousin. Thomas Kilgore, the ninth Earl of Glenmurray."

Robbie raises his brows. "His Lordship doesn't mind Sir Andrew letting the place to strangers? For that matter, doesn't he use the island himself?"

"I gather that the family prefers to summer at one of their other properties."

"What, they've got a bigger, better island?"

"They do. Also townhouses in Edinburgh and London, a shooting lodge in Lochaber—a small place, just twenty rooms—and a palazzo in Venice," James says matter-of-factly. "Then there's Kilgore Castle, the family seat."

"'The rich are different from you and me'—didn't some famous writer say that?"

"Worded slightly differently, but yes, they are. Very different."

He would know that. "They don't scrimp and save for a caravan holiday in Bournemouth, that's for certain. So, what's two weeks on an Earl's private island going to take out of my pocket, eh?" At James's frown, he retorts, "You are not going to pay my way. You can buy me a drink—but, no, there won't be a pub there."

Sighing, James names a figure that has Robbie's brows shooting upwards because it's suspiciously small. "Are you taking the piss? That little to let a cottage for two weeks?"

"We're not actually letting the cottage," James explains. "The fee is to stock the kitchen with food, petrol for the generator, and a payment for the boat captain who'll take us across. As you said, there's no pub, but if you'd like to bring along a bottle to share, I wouldn't object."

"Or pick up something local?"

"It would be appropriate. We have to travel via Oban, and I believe it's got a distillery."

* * *

Oban does indeed have a distillery, which offers a tour, complete with samples. "Lunch first," Robbie decrees. The eight-hour drive from Oxford was wearying, even though they broke it up by overnighting at a cheap hotel off the M6. They've got time to kill, as their ferry ride to Castlebay on Barra isn't scheduled until mid-afternoon.

The queue for the ferry is surprisingly long. There are at least sixty cars waiting to embark, and James informs him gravely that the ferry will hold ninety. The five-hour trip isn't as tedious as he feared. There's a coffee cabin and an observation lounge—a TV lounge, too, though he'd much rather entertain himself by reading the newspaper, watching his fellow passengers, or talking with James. James isn't very talkative, Robbie notes. He makes frequent trips to the outdoor seating area, and not just to smoke. Sometimes he stands silently by the rail, watching the waves, the distant islands, and the seabirds wheeling overhead. Is he thinking ahead to the moment when he can join them in the cloudless sky?

Even at a distance, Robbie can read the tension in his friend's stiff back and the way he paces the deck. Anticipation? Or apprehension? Probably a little of both, he decides.

At last the ferry arrives at Castlebay. Robbie, following James's recited directions, turns left out of the ferry terminal. Two minutes and a few more turns bring them to an inlet where a dozen boats are moored. Mostly charter boats for tourists, judging from the legends painted on their sides. He pulls into the car park. You'll be met at the dock, the email from Sir Andrew said. Met by who?

There's a small crowd of people near the dock. Most of them are tourists, brightly dressed and bedecked with cameras, heading back to their hotels and guest houses after a day on the water. The boat captains stand by their vessels, chatting amiably with departing customers or with each other. One captain detaches himself from the group and strides briskly towards them. He's about Robbie's age, lean and wiry, with lively hazel eyes set in a weathered face.

He addresses James. "Mr. James Hathaway?" James admits his identity. "I'm Dan Sturrock. Sir Andrew Morrison sent me." He turns to Robbie with a look of polite inquiry.

It take Robbie a moment to understand. Sturrock was told to meet Mr James Hathaway and friend. James is the invited guest and Robbie is the tagalong. He smiles and holds out his hand. "Robbie Lewis."

In no time at all their luggage is out of the car boot and into the cabin of the Island Voyager. Sturrock takes Robbie's keys, promising to store the car safely until their return.

They seat themselves in the cabin, not wanting to distract the captain as he navigates out of the narrow inlet. Once the boat is onto the open sea, Sturrock addresses his passengers. "We should arrive at Araney in about twenty minutes. If you'd like a cold drink, that yellow cooler has bottles of water, Coke and Irn Bru." Robbie realises that this is the first time he's heard the name of the place where he'll be spending the next fortnight. He's got used to thinking of it as just 'the island'.

Something stirs in the back of his brain. How did Sturrock know who they were? There were other men in the car park, and other cars that didn't have 'S' for Scotland on their number plates.

As if reading his mind, James says, "Captain Sturrock? How did you know who I was? Did Sir Andrew give you a description of me?"

"Didn't have to, now did he? I know what to look for." Beside him, Robbie sees James stiffen. Sturrock notices it too. "Ah, it's like that, is it?" He pulls down on a lever and the boat slows to quarter-speed or less, then turns the pilot's chair sideways so he can look at them and still mind the wheel. "May I?" His glance towards Robbie completes the question.

"You can say anything in front of my friend Robbie," James says. His voice is steady and his face shuttered.

"Fair enough. I should start by saying that Sturrocks have worked for the Kilgore family for five generations. My da was a gardener at Kilgore Castle. I crewed on His Lordship's yacht when I was younger, and my brother Luke captains her now."

"But you run your own business," Robbie observes.

"Aye, thanks to His Lordship, who helped me secure a loan to get started. That's the sort of man he is—the sort of family they are. And Sir Andrew is a Kilgore through and through. His mum was Lady Margaret Kilgore, the old Earl's sister. He and His Lordship are closer than brothers. He grew up at Kilgore, in the Dower House. Brought his wife there when he married, and..." Sturrock takes a deep breath. "You'll know about his daughter, I suppose?" At their nods he continues, "Miss Helena was the sweetest lass. Kind and good-natured, though she had a mischievous streak in her. My boy Jack is an arborist for the Forestry Commission. When he was at uni, he spent his summer hols working in the gardens at Kilgore. One day, he was taking soil samples under the Victoria Jubilee oak when Miss Helena dived down from the top branches and landed next to him. Jack nearly pissed his trousers, he was that startled, but he couldn't be angry at her. No one could. When she passed, we all grieved."

Sturrock bows his head for a moment, then continues. "For decades, the family have used Araney as a sort of retreat for themselves and for friends. If I were to name names, you'd recognise them. Sir Andrew also used to send some of his patients there. After Miss Helena died, he invited guests more often. For the past twenty years, no one has set foot on Araney—not man nor woman, child nor dog—unless I brought them over." He looks steadily at James. "It's a subtle thing. The shape of the body, the tilt of the shoulders, the curve of the back, and even the way of walking. Other than Sir Andrew, I daresay no one in Britain has seen more fir sgiathach than me. I can tell by looking at you—to anyone else, you're just another tall, skinny Englishman."

James twitches the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, Captain Sturrock."

"Dan, please. While we're at it, I'll tell you that you can safely fly about a kilometre in any direction. It's not near any shipping routes, and the fishermen and the other charter boats know to stay clear. The Kilgores are respected in the area, and none of the locals would dream of trespassing on His Lordship's property or disturbing his guests."

James nods. "Good to know."

Sturrock hands him a sealed envelope. "This is what you might call a flyer's guide to Araney. Comments and advice from previous guests. I'd suggest you read it over before your first flight. Some of the sea-winds can be a bit tricky."

* * *

Araney is a little gem of an island, Robbie decides, at least what he can see of it in the fading light. It's been gentled but not completely tamed. The unpaved walkway up from the dock has terraced steps dug into the earth in the steeper places. Robbie trails behind Dan (carrying both suitcases) and James (carrying his guitar and laptop). It's clear he'll get plenty of exercise on this holiday, unless he remains near the cottage for the full two weeks. Which might not be such a bad thing. Inside the old stone walls, the cottage is modern, comfortable, and welcoming. He suspects that some interior walls were torn down to reconfigure the rooms. Each of the two bedrooms is large enough to hold an extra-long king size bed, which makes James smile. Room enough for his wings and his bloody long legs.

For his part, Robbie likes the look of the open-plan lounge/dining area. His detective's eye sweeps the room, taking in the details: a stone fireplace, a wool hearth rug in a cheerful multi-coloured chequered pattern, and matching throw cushions on the blue-grey couch. Armchairs. A low bookcase. A battered oak table with a blue and white tartan runner. The walls are decorated with black-and-white photos of misty Scottish landscapes, and a framed topo map of Araney. A large watercolour painting—a seascape—holds pride of place over the fireplace. "Very comfortable." Because Dan Sturrock is in the room, he doesn't voice his other thought, And not at all posh.

Sturrock gives them the tuppeny tour of the practical aspects of the cottage: generator, circuit box, firewood, satellite Internet and phone connection, and emergency shortwave radio. It's all pretty straightforward, except for the Internet thingummy, and James will sort that, he knows. They thank Sturrock, who smiles and nods and refuses to let them accompany him back down to the dock. Two minutes after the cottage door shuts behind him, Robbie hears the muted roar of the Island Explorer's engines.

He looks at James. "What now? Supper?"

"Actually, I'd like to go outside. Watch the sunset," James says. There's an unexpected note of shyness in his voice.

Robbie is hungry and tired, and part of him would like to point out that there will be a sodding sunset every sodding night, but a good mate doesn't do that. "Right." He starts for the door, but out of the corner of his eye he can see that James isn't moving. He's stripping off his windbreaker and t-shirt, and throwing them onto a chair. Of course. I should have guessed. Robbie pauses to study one of the photographs on the wall, which was taken from the interior of a sea cave. Beyond the cave mouth, he can see sunlight glittering on the water, and the hazy silhouette of a distant island. Which philosopher compared life to being imprisoned in a cave? He can't remember. One of the Greeks, probably.

The distinctive ripping sound of Velcro brings him back to the here and now, and to the sight of James, completely bare above the waist, wings neatly folded. "You don't want a t-shirt at least? It's not exactly Majorca out there."

"I'll be fine for a few minutes," James replies. "I need to feel the air."

The air outside is cool, verging on brisk. They move to the right side of the cottage, where there's a clear view to the horizon. The ruins of the old lighthouse loom behind them. The western sky is streaked with vivid colours he hasn't seen since he returned from the BVI. He turns to James to share a memory, and the words die on his lips. Here is a sight more glorious than any sunset. James has spread his wings to 'feel the air' and the reflected light paints his pale feathers rose, gold, lavender and blue. He extends them into a nearly horizontal position. A flying position, Robbie thinks. He's not going to go sailing off now, is he?

James sighs. "That sky is magnificent." It's clear he doesn't just mean the colours.

"It is," Robbie agrees. "You have plenty of time to become better acquainted with it."

"I know."

They stand in silence until the last gleam of colour fades. "Supper," Robbie says firmly.

James folds his wings with a soft rustle that sounds like another sigh, and follows him back inside.

A quick inspection of the kitchen shows that they're spoilt for choices. "Spag Bol?" Robbie suggests. "I saw a package of mince in the freezer."

"Could do." James's muffled voice emerges from the fridge, which appears to have swallowed his entire head. "Or maybe—aha!" He withdraws, displaying something wrapped in greaseproof paper.

"And what might that be?"

"That is a filet from a salmon that was probably swimming in the Atlantic just this morning." James beams as proudly as if he'd caught the bloody fish himself. "Sturrock must have come over earlier today to stock the fridge. We've fresh milk, too."

They set to work. Within twenty minutes they're sat at the table, tucking into pan-fried salmon, couscous, and salad. Afterwards, Robbie tackles the dishes while James reads the flyer's guide to Araney.

"Planning your first go?"

"Not much to plan," James says with a shrug. "This says the southeast cliffs have strong, reliable updrafts. Just the spot for someone as out of practice as I am. Jump, glide for a while, then land. Repeat as desired."

He has to ask. "Jumping off a cliff sounds a bit chancy for someone who's two years out of practice. Maybe you should start on level ground, by way of a warm-up? The map shows a nice bit of open space not too far from the cottage." James, the cheeky sod, is biting his lip, trying not to laugh at him."All right," Robbie growls. "I won't try to teach my grandmother to suck eggs. Just don't fancy having to call the Coastguard to pull you out of the sea."

James's sea-coloured eyes are bright with humour. "I appreciate your concern, but really, the simplest, most basic form of flying is a fixed-wing glide from a height. I don't quite remember my first flight—I was two or three—but it was from the hayloft. More of a slow fall than actual flying."

"Sounds like a parachute jump." Not that he's ever done that, or ever will.

"A bit more controlled, but yeah. It's even easier if there's an updraft, because that does most of the work for you."

"That's well enough, but are you sure your wing is fully healed? You've done your exercises and all, but you haven't really put it to the test."

"I'm certain."

"All right. You know best. Just restrain your impatience until a reasonable hour of the morning, will you? I'm not getting up at five to watch you greet the rosy-fingered dawn."

"I'll wait. I'll even let you have your coffee first," James promises.

"Coffee and breakfast. You, too. You can't conquer Scottish airspace on an empty stomach."

* * *

It turns out that Scottish airspace has other plans. When Robbie wakes, the bedroom is darker than he expected, even with the curtains drawn. He stumbles out to the lounge, and discovers that the steady sound of water beating down is not James taking a shower. James is standing in the kitchen, shooting murderous looks at the coffee maker. Since that inoffensive appliance is obediently making coffee, Robbie deduces that James's strop has more to do with the rain outside. "Morning," he ventures.

James sighs. "Morning, Robbie. Coffee's almost ready."

"Ta." He gestures at the window. "That supposed to last long?"

"All day and night. Clearing tomorrow morning," James says in the flat voice he reserves for VIP receptions, team effectiveness meetings, summons to the Chief Super's office, and other disasters.

"Pity. Suppose we'll have to have a quiet day in." The cottage has no television, but there's the radio, and James has his laptop and iPod. Plenty to read, and last night he spotted some games on the bottom of the bookshelf.

James gives him a brief nod. After breakfast, James settles himself in front of his laptop, and Robbie starts in on Keith Richards' autobiography. He skims through the opening pages and the account of a drug bust during the Stones' 1975 American tour. He's not surprised or shocked. There'll be a lot more of that in the 500+ pages to come. He read about most of those scandals when they were first splashed across the front page of every tabloid. Now they're just old, sad news. The second chapter, describing Keith's childhood and first exposure to music, is more promising. Keith is older than Robbie, and grew up poorer, but Robbie feels a certain kinship with the working-class lad who became a rock-and-roll superstar.

He sets the book aside, goes to the loo, then borrows James's laptop to email Lyn. Eventually, somehow, the dragging hands of the clock announce lunchtime. After the cheese toasties are consumed, and the few dishes washed, he wanders over to the bookcase to look at the games. Chess is an invitation to humiliating disaster. He's never cared for draughts or backgammon, and he'd have to be more stoned than Keith Richards to get out the Cluedo box. But there on the bottom, underneath Snakes and Ladders...

Five minutes later, he's sat at the dining table, a Scrabble board between him and James. "Not what I would have guessed as your choice for Sunday afternoon entertainment."

"Val loved the game, was in a club and everything. She used to practice on me," Robbie says. "I learned a few tips." It's true, but he has no illusions that some friendly games with his wife twenty years ago will help him against a clever-clogs who probably reads the OED for fun. I'm going to be slaughtered.

It's not quite a slaughter. Robbie draws a few high-scoring letters, and remembers one of the 'Q' words that don't need a 'U'. He loses anyway, but not by as much as he expected, and James is able to coax him into another game.

In the second game, James gets cocky. He concentrates more on finding obscure, highbrow words (pyx? fanon?) and not enough on the strategy of playing the coloured squares that can double or triple word values. For his part, Robbie remembers some of the funny two-letter words that fit nicely into tight spots. Then he looks down at his tile rack and sees a lovely, ordinary, lowbrow word—and the perfect space on the board. "Here's a good'un," Robbie announces as he lays the tiles down. "For 108 points."

"Jukebox?" James says incredulously.

"It's how we used to listen to music, back in the Dark Ages, before iPods were invented." He grins. "Best two out of three?"

"Later?" James suggests. "At the risk of seeming a poor loser, I don't think I can face another game just now." He stands up and stretches, arching his back and partially extending his wings. "In fact, I think I'll go for a walk."

"In that?"

"It's only rain. The Shipping Forecast said wind 5 to 6. Not exactly a gale." He's wearing jeans and one of those sweatshirts with slits to accommodate his wings. He disappears briefly into his bedroom. When he returns, Robbie sees that he's swapped his trainers for boots, and added a back-slit hoodie over the sweatshirt. It's another layer, but not waterproof.

"Shouldn't you put on a mac?"

"Didn't bring one."

"You could borrow mine."

"Thanks, but it won't fit."

This sounds ridiculous until Robbie fills in the unspoken part of that answer. His mac won't fit unless James puts on the binder that's tucked away in his duffel at the bottom of the wardrobe, and Robbie is pretty sure that James would rather go naked. He wants to say something, but he's not sure what that something should be. Be careful? Stay away from the cliffs? James is a grown man, a copper with good instincts, and the last thing he wants is his governor fussing over him like a fretful old granny. It's a wet summer afternoon in Scotland, not an Antarctic expedition. He gives James a friendly nod of farewell, then busies himself with tidying up the Scrabble set.

Robbie switches on the radio. Sunday afternoon is a wasteland of showtunes, cooking tips, unfunny comedy, and celebrity gossip. He's not in the mood just now for sex and drugs and rock-and-roll, so he goes to investigate the bookcase. It's a real hodgepodge, with a 19th century history of Scotland shelved next to a Mills & Boon romance, a biography of some Brazilian footballer, Harry Potter, the Bible, the Nautical Almanac, and the 1928 edition of Scouting for Boys. A few spy novels look interesting, and he plucks one from the shelf. Soon he's deep in the Cold War adventures of a British agent. The hero, on the run from Soviet spies, takes refuge in an abandoned barn. Robbie can almost hear the wind in the rafters and feel the icy chill of a Norwegian winter. With a shake of his head he comes to himself. The wind he hears is real enough, and is blowing stronger than before. As for cold, yeah, it's got a bit chilly. He could take the electric heater out of the utility cupboard, or... With sudden determination, he sets aside the novel and goes to kneel on the hearth-rug. Everything he needs is right at hand. Hope I haven't lost me touch.

He hasn't. True, it takes more than one match, but in moments, a cheery blaze is crackling in the old stone fireplace. Robbie returns to the sofa, and sits admiring his handiwork. He's about to reach for his book when he hears the click of the door-latch. Turning, he sees James enter, and bites back a laugh. The lad is drenched. Water drips from his clothing, wings, and hair. "You're as wet as an otter's pocket! Get undressed, then come and get warm by the fire."

Wordlessly, James heads for the bathroom, making squishing sounds with every step. Five minutes later, he reappears, dressed only in a pair of briefs, and carrying a dry bath sheet. His hair is towel-tousled, his skin is damp, and droplets of water glisten here and there on his wings. He spreads the bath sheet over the hearth-rug, and carefully lies down on his stomach, chin cradled on his overlapping hands, wings half opened. "This is good," he murmurs, and closes his eyes.

The only sounds in the room are the crackle and hiss of the fire and the drumming of the rain. Robbie stares down at James. This is the first time he's been able to look closely without James being aware of his attention. The firelight transforms the wings, turning ivory to gold and gold to bronze. More remarkable than the colours are the textures. All those other times, he was so busy looking at the wings that he didn't properly notice the feathers. There are different kinds—different not just in size, but in shape and structure. Some have pointed tips, some blunt. Some are smooth-edged, some serrated, and some as soft and downy as an Easter chick.

His gaze follows the curve of one wing to the place where it joins James's back. It doesn't look as strange as one might think, a feathered structure emerging from bare skin. No more strange or out of place than a tree growing out of the earth. Visible beneath the skin are the firm ridges and curves of the muscles that make the huge wings flick with annoyance or shake off water or stretch wide to greet the rising moon and setting sun. That make them fly. He's beautiful. Robbie has thought this before, but tonight it hits him full force. Amazing.

When he visited Italy with Lyn, Robbie saw a lot of statues of handsome young men by famous artists. They were world-famous masterpieces, according to the bits that Lyn read from the guidebook. Not one of them can hold a candle to the masterpiece that's right here in front of him, made not of cold marble, but of ivory feathers, golden hair, and fire-warmed skin.

His face flushes for reasons having nothing to do with the heat of the fire. Christ, he's almost as bad as that vile old bugger, Mortmaigne—treating James as a decorative object, and not a human being.

"You can touch them if you like."

Robbie starts. James hasn't moved, but his eyes are open. Obviously he's noticed Robbie staring at him. "What?"

"My wings," James says sleepily. He waggles one wingtip, as though Robbie might need a reminder. "You can touch them if you want. I'm surprised you haven't asked before this."

"Don't usually go around touching other blokes," Robbie retorts. "Not unless they're injured, resisting arrest, or carrying a rugby ball."

"Arrested many fir sgiathach, have you?" James quips. Before Robbie can respond, James gets up into a cross-legged sitting position, his back to the fire. "You're curious. Go ahead. I really don't mind."

"If you're certain," Robbie begins.

"Or I could touch you." Without warning, James flicks his right wing up and forward, brushing the tip lightly across Robbie's hand. He leaves the wing extended, resting on the sofa next to Robbie.

Robbie runs a tentative finger up one of the longest feathers. It's sleek, but not especially soft. Firm. The shape is different to what he would have thought. It's not at all symmetrical. The quill-thingy runs close to the outer edge of the feather instead of in the middle.

"That is a primary flight feather." Robbie recognises James's lecture voice. "The primaries extend to here..." He lifts the wing, pulling it closer to his body so he can point at the different sections. "And the secondaries from here on down. You'll notice that the secondaries are blunt-tipped, and lack the distinctive notch of the primaries. Above them are the coverts—" He breaks off abruptly. "I'm boring you."

"No," Robbie protests. "It's just a bit technical for me. Doesn't mean I'm not interested." He reaches out and strokes the—what did James call them?—covert feathers. Those are softer, more like what he expected. "Can you feel that?"

"Yes and no. There aren't any nerve endings in the feathers. But I can feel the pressure indirectly, the way you can feel someone touching your hair."

Robbie nods, and touches some of the other feathers, noting the differences between them. "Thanks." James draws in his wings and shakes them slightly before folding them. "You dry now?"

"Dry. Warm." James glances down at his mostly naked self. "Ready to get dressed."

"Get a move on, then. I'm ready for tea, and it's not going to cook itself."

"I thought that was your job," James teases.

"What am I? Your sodding chef?"

"I thought you were my best mate."

"You're a pain in the arse, that's what you are," Robbie grumbles. To emphasise the point, he snatches up on of the little sofa cushions and swats James on the top of the head before stalking over to the kitchen.

Spag bol makes a nice hot meal for a cold, rainy evening. Afterwards, Robbie builds up the fire again.

"Where did you learn to do that?" James asks. "I know that you were born after the invention of central heating, and I'd bet a week's pay you were never a Scout."

"Never had time for that nonsense," Robbie agrees. "As for central heating... there were plenty of older houses in Newcastle that were built before the war and relied on open fires. Me gran lived in one like that, so I got plenty of practice."

"I bow to your superior survival skills," James says with a smirk.

"As well you should. If we run into trouble and the radio-phone conks out, I'll build a signal fire." He pauses just for two seconds. "And you can fan it."

James's laughter echoes off the stones of the fireplace.

* * *

They're up early. James wants to be out flying as soon as possible, and Robbie intends to be there to watch. They take time for breakfast—flying burns a lot of energy—and Robbie brings his second cup of coffee outside. There's a bench near the cliff edge, the sort that looks simple and rustic, but is made of teak and probably costs at least two weeks of his take-home pay. He sits down and watches with amusement as James does his warm-up exercises. It's not that the exercises themselves are odd-looking. They're similar to the physio James did when he was recovering from his injury. The slow, stylised movements resemble the Tai Chi he's seen people doing in parks back in Oxford. All very graceful and elegant. James's wings, outspread in full sunlight, are as bright and glorious as he imagined on a dreary February afternoon in Oxford. The humorous note comes from the outfit James is wearing: tattered jeans and a sweatshirt that must be older than its wearer. Robbie peers at the stylised logo of an American band that was popular when he was a young man. "The Eagles?"

James shrugs, his wings echoing the movement of his shoulders. "Got it at a charity shop. It seemed appropriate. Araney means eagle's island."

"You ready?"

"I think so. I'll find out shortly." James walks to the edge of the cliff. He bows his head, and his lips move silently. A prayer? They he lifts his wings into a horizontal position, bends his knees, and leaps.

As James drops out of sight, Robbie rushes to the cliff edge. It's about 120 feet down to the sea, and James is halfway there and descending fast. Robbie holds his breath until he sees James level off into a slow, wide circle. He seems to be searching for something—maybe one of those updrafts he mentioned? A moment later, he finds it, and begins flying upwards, wings pumping steadily. He rises back to the cliff top, but instead of landing, he gives Robbie a wave and a cheeky grin and dives back down.

Robbie watches, spellbound, as James glides in lazy circles above the sea. Sometimes he climbs up and then swoops down, but mostly he soars on an even plane, keeping within a hundred yards of the cliff. After ten minutes of this, he flies up once again, and lands with an audible thump. Almost immediately, he stumbles over to the wooden bench and collapses onto it with a sigh.

"James? You all right?"

"Fine. Just... tired." His voice comes out in hoarse gasps. "It's like any other exercise—the first time after a long hiatus is hell on the body."

"Nothing strained or injured?"

He shakes his head. "Just aches and pains. My muscles are sore—hell, even my feathers are aching." Despite his words, his eyes are bright, and his grin is a metre wide.

I was wrong, Robbie decides. It's not James's wings that are truly glorious—it's his joy.

* * *

Robbie would have suggested a hot shower, but James declares that cold, not hot, is the best treatment for sore muscles. After downing a full litre of an alarmingly-blue sport drink, he suggests they go for a dip in the sea pool. Robbie's seen it on the topo map. It's just under two kilometres from the cottage. "You up for that much walking?"

James assures him that his legs are fine. They change into swimming shorts, then throw towels, snacks, and bottles of spring water into a small rucksack which Robbie hoists on his back. They set off along a well-marked trail that cuts across a grassy field. In the distance, he sees a scattering of gnarled shrubs. As the trail begins to descend towards sea level, it undulates in gentle curves past clumps of feathery green ferns, and wide swathes of heather that are just starting to flush pink. It's a beautiful landscape, despite the lack of trees.

The sea pool is part of a natural inlet, a roughly circular basin about thirty feet across. The sea has carved a shallow ditch across the rock-strewn shingle. At high tide, the basin will fill to the brim. At low-tide, which it is now, a man can sit on one of the submerged boulders that line the edge of the basin, up to his neck (Robbie) or shoulders (James) in seawater.

Robbie strips off his t-shirt. His swimming shorts are bright blue with yellow and white flowers—a souvenir of his time in the BVI. James is wearing a pair of black swimming briefs that are so obviously new that they may as well have the price tag from the shop still attached.

"You had me heart pounding at the beginning, there," Robbie says. "Thought you were going to dive into the bloody sea."

James shoots him a reproachful look. "I'm not a cormorant."

"Nah, more like a bloody stork, you are." Robbie pushes off from his boulder, swims a few strokes, then turns over to float on his back. "This is nice. Haven't done this in a while."

"You know, it is possible to swim in Oxford. There are leisure centres with indoor pools, and I believe I saw a poster somewhere about discounted memberships for public servants."

Robbie stares up at the cloudless sky. What would it be like to see James soaring overhead from this angle? "What? No, that'd be a waste of money. I just like to paddle around a bit. Besides, swimming has always meant the seaside to me. Used to go to Whitley Bay when I was a lad. And Val and I took the kids to Bournemouth for summer holidays. We had a lot of fun there."

"Alas, there's no arcade on Araney," James says dryly.

"Don't need it, do I? I've got you to amuse me."

A long silence, and then a quiet voice floats across the water. "What did you do in Bournemouth?"

Just in time, Robbie stops himself from saying, 'You know, all the usual stuff.' James doesn't know. His family didn't take him to the seaside when he was a boy. He may have read about it, or heard schoolmates discussing their own summer hols, but Robbie would bet that James has never made a sandcastle nor played the penny falls.

Robbie shuts his eyes, letting his memory drift with his body. He's not much of a storyteller, but for James's sake he tries. He spins a tale as timeless as the sea and as ephemeral as candy floss on a child's tongue. Strolls along the beach... Lyn making a sandcastle for fairies to live in, and Mark adding a garage for their cars... the pleasure of decent fish and chips, with fish fresh from the sea. He remembers the time that Mark sneaked off to visit the arcade on his own. "He won two pounds from a tuppeny slot machine and spent it all on sweets. We didn't know about it until the middle of the night when he sicked it all up."

"Did you punish him?"

"That sort of thing is its own punishment, mostly. We gave him a stern talking to, and he wasn't allowed ice cream the next day."

"Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty."

Shakespeare? Shelley? He's not going to ask. "I daresay Mark would have agreed. Day after that, we took a drive to the New Forest, had a picnic. Val bought a Battenberg cake for afters. Mark used his slice to lure one of those little donkeys that wander around the forest—then threw a right strop when the beast grabbed it and ate it."

"So he had to go without?"

"Well, Lyn took her slice—"

"And gave it to her little brother? That's sweet."

"Actually, she fed it to the donkey." At James's sputter of laughter, Robbie swims to the far edge of the basin and pulls himself upright. The slope above is carpeted with a wildflower he's never seen before: thick, ground-hugging stems fill the spaces between the rocks, and tiny, delicate pink cups peek out between fleshy leaves. Araney is full of lovely surprises.

They eat and drink, chat and reminisce until James decides he's soaked for long enough. They haul themselves out of the water, make the obligatory jokes about wrinkled, prune-like skin, and head up the trail back to the cottage. They take turns in the shower, then have a late lunch outside. Robbie wishes he could safely take a snapshot of James, whose wings are spread wide to dry in the breeze while he enjoys a ham sandwich and a bottle of 'Fair Puggled' ale. He takes a swig from his own bottle ('Kilt Lifter', by the same Oban microbrewery) and sighs contentedly. It's going to be a very good holiday.

And so it is. Robbie takes long walks around the perimeter of the island; sometimes with James, sometimes on his own. At night, or when it rains, they chat, read, listen to the radio, or play games. James practices his guitar. He flies farther and longer every day, steadily gaining strength and agility. His wings really aren't designed for acrobatic flying, but he manages some spiral dives that are terrifying to watch.

Near the end of their stay, James decides to try a night flight. The rain didn't clear until after sundown, and he's restless. He waves off Robbie's concerns. "It's a wide open sky. No trees to get tangled in."

"Just don't collide with the lighthouse," Robbie warns. The top of the building has long since crumbled, and there's been no light there for seventy or eighty years.

It's visible enough, James tells him, especially since there's still large patches of white plaster clinging to the masonry. Robbie sits in his accustomed spot on the teak bench, and watches James soar into the hazy night sky. As the lad gains altitude, he's harder to see. James is wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeved blue t-shirt, and his nearly-white wings don't show up as much as one might think. It's hard to judge size and distance without landmarks, especially in the dark. A casual observer might believe he was seeing a gull or some other large seabird. Surely they can find some isolated spot within reasonable distance of Oxford, maybe for a weekend getaway? If James dresses in dark clothing and Robbie guards the car...

He makes the suggestion the next day, and James shuts down. Oh, his 'thank you, Robbie' is polite, even friendly, but his face is a mask and his wings are pulled tightly against his body. Robbie abandons the idea... for now.

The sad day of departure comes all too soon. Dan Sturrock is due in the early morning to get them to a 9:00 AM ferry from Castlebay. Robbie is awakened at dawn, an hour before his alarm is due to go off, by the sound of James moving about the kitchen. One last flight? He debates getting up. It's obscenely early, though he's used to callouts at all hours on the job, and he loves to watch James fly. The wonder of seeing his friend soaring, free and happy, has not faded. And yet... perhaps James would like this time alone, just himself and the endless summer sky. Robbie turns over, and lets sleep claim him again.

He wakes to the sizzle and smell of bacon. In the kitchen, James is preparing a proper fry-up. It's clear he's been up for some time. He's fully dressed, and his damp hair is neatly combed. "Good morning," he says over his shoulder.

"Morning," Robbie replies. He's heading for the coffee pot when it occurs to him that something isn't quite right. He's halfway through his first cup when his brain wakes up enough to function properly. His wings are gone. Well, not gone, obviously, but bound and hidden under his Cambridge hoodie. Now he looks... odd. Incomplete. Funny how quickly your perception of someone can change. I've got used to this.

He doesn't realise that he's said it aloud until James turns to look at him. "What's that, Robbie?"

"I've got used to this," he repeats, and waves his hands vaguely about. "Sleeping in, having breakfast cooked for me. It's going to be hard to get used to ordinary life again. Still, we can't laze about forever."

"Very true," James replies. "Another week here and you'd be interrogating the local insect population about a dead beetle, and phoning Dr Hobson for forensic entomological advice."

He laughs. "I expect you're right. And Laura would skin me alive."

After breakfast and the washing up, they take their coffee outside to sit on the bench. The morning bird noise is in full swing. The squawks and shrieks of gulls, kittiwakes, wild geese, and others, has become a familiar background sound, only half-heard, like the rumble of Oxford traffic.

James says abruptly, "Before we go... I wanted to thank you."

"Thank me? What for?"

"For encouraging me to come here, but especially for joining me. Having you here has been, well, it's meant a lot to me."

"That's funny," Robbie replies, "because I was about to thank you for inviting me along."

"I was afraid you'd find it boring."

"Compared to my usual action-packed holidays? Nah. Nice and relaxing. Doing a lot of nothing-much with a good mate is my idea of heaven." He pauses. "Actually, to be heaven, it would need some football on the telly. And rugby."

"And a pub," James suggests.

"And a decent chippy."

"Your notion of heaven is starting to sound like a rainy night in Oxford."

"Then I reckon it's a good thing we're heading back there, much as I've liked bein' here." They rise and walk towards the cottage to finish packing. Robbie looks over his shoulder. "You reckon His Lordship might let us come again next summer?"

James's smile is answer enough.

* * *

James takes a last slow drag off his cigarette. The first of the day is always the best, but that's not why he's sitting at the end of the bed in his underwear. He's in no hurry to get dressed. Oh, he's keen enough to get back to work. Can't laze about forever, as Robbie said, and his brain is ready for something more challenging than Scrabble. Only... he glances at his binder, draped neatly over the back of a chair. He wore it on the trip back from Scotland, of course, but memories of Araney linger in his mind. To wander out-of-doors, shirtless in full daylight, is a luxury he hasn't enjoyed since he was twelve. And it's one that he probably won't have again for another year—or longer. Back to the real world, he reminds himself.

He thinks about Araney as he tugs the binder into place, and adjusts the tightness of the straps. The quiet, the simple comfort, and above all, the freedom to fly whenever he pleased... it was so bloody wonderful. Yet as often as his mind reaches back to those amazing flights, those glorious dives and swoops and the slow glides that let him overlook the island and the sea, he keeps seeing Robbie. Robbie, sharing stories of his own seaside holidays. Hiking the circumference trail and letting James pontificate about the ecological systems of the Outer Hebrides. Setting aside a thrilling spy novel to listen to James play madrigals on his guitar. Sharing a beer Sharing secrets. Robbie, examining his wings with calm curiosity, then ignoring them... mostly. He'd watched every flight with keen interest, and he'd grumbled when James accidentally jostled the table with his left wing during a game of Scrabble.

"I'm finally winning another game, and if you knock the tiles off with your sodding feather-dusters, I swear I will pluck you as bare as a Christmas turkey."

Robbie makes him feel normal—no, Robbie makes him feel that normal doesn't matter. Back to the real world, he thinks again, and smiles. Any world that includes Robbie Lewis is one he'll be happy living in.

- THE END -


End file.
